DOMESDAY  BOOK 


BY 

EDGAR  LEE  MASTERS 


gotfe 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1920 

A.U  rights  reserved 


«\ 

•V 


COPYRIGHT,  1920, 
BY  EDGAR  LEE   MASTERS 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.    Published  October, 


TO   MY  FATHER 

HARDIN  WALLACE  MASTERS 

SPLENDID  INDIVIDUAL  OF 
A  PASSING  SPECIES  —  AN   AMERICAN 


446137 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DOMESDAY  BOOK * 

THE  BIRTH  OF  ELENOR  MURRAY 4 

FINDING  OF  THE  BODY 9 

THE  CORONER *3 

HENRY  MURRAY 23 

MRS.  MURRAY 36 

ALMA  BELL  TO  THE  CORONER 5° 

GREGORY  WENNER 59 

MRS.  GREGORY  WENNER 71 

DR.  TRACE  TO  THE  CORONER 80 

IRMA  LEESE 84 

MIRIAM  FAY'S  LETTER 94 

ARCHIBALD  LOWELL 101 

WIDOW    FORTELKA HO 

REV.  PERCY  FERGUSON 118 

DR.  BURKE 126 

CHARLES  WARREN,  THE  SHERIFF 138 

THE  GOVERNOR 152 

JOHN  SCOFIELD 158 

GOTTLIEB  GERALD 163 

LILLI  ALM *73 

FATHER  WHIMSETT 179 

JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 188 

AT  FAIRBANKS 210 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

ANTON  SOSNOWSKI 219 

CONSIDER  FREELAND 229 

GEORGE  JOSLIN  ON  LA  MENKEN 237 

WILL  PAGET  ON  DEMOS  AND  HOGOS 247 

THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT 254 

JANE  FISHER 270 

HENRY  BAKER,  AT  NEW  YORK 277 

LOVERIDGE  CHASE 286 

AT  NICE 289 

THE  MAJOR  AND  ELENOR  MURRAY  AT  NICE 305 

THE   CONVENT 3I2 

BARRETT  BAYS 3!9 

ELENOR  MURRAY 356 

THE  JURY  DELIBERATES 377 

THE  VERDICT 395 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Take  any  life  you  choose  and  study  it: 
It  gladdens,  troubles,  changes  many  lives. 
The  life  goes  out,  how  many  things  result  ? 
Fate  drops  a  stone,  and  to  the  utmost  shores 
The  circles  spread. 

Now,  such  a  book  were  endless, 
If  every  circle,  riffle  should  be  traced 
Of  any  life  —  and  so  of  Elenor  Murray, 
Whose  life  was  humble  and  whose  death  was  tragic. 
And  yet  behold  the  riffles  spread,  the  lives 
That  are  affected,  and  the  secrets  gained 
Of  lives  she  never  knew  of,  as  for  that. 
For  even  the  world  could  not  contain  the  books 
That  should  be  written,  if  all  deeds  were  traced, 
Effects,  results,  gains,  losses,  of  her  life, 
And  of  her  death. 

Concretely  said,  in  brief, 
A  man  and  woman  have  produced  this  child ; 
What  was  the  child's  pre-natal  circumstance  ? 
How  did  her  birth  affect  the  father,  mother  ? 
What  did  their  friends,  old  women,  relatives 
Take  from  the  child  in  feeling,  joy  or  pain  ? 

to 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

What  of  her  childhood  friends,  her  days  at  school, 
Her  teachers,  girlhood  sweethearts,  lovers  later, 
When  she  became  a  woman  ?     What  of  these  ? 
And  what  of  those  who  got  effects  because 
They  knew  this  Elenor  Murray? 

Then  she  dies. 

Read  how  the  human  secrets  are  exposed 
In  many  lives  because  she  died  —  not  all 
Lives,  by  her  death  affected,  written  here. 
The  reader  may  trace  out  such  other  riffles 
As  come  to  him  —  this  book  must  have  an  end. 

Enough  is  shown  to  show  what  could  be  told 

If  we  should  write  a  world  of  books.     In  brief 

One  feature  of  the  plot  elaborates 

The  closeness  of  one  life,  however  humble 

With  every  life  upon  this  globe.     In  truth 

I  sit  here  in  Chicago,  housed  and  fed, 

And  think  the  world  secure,  at  peace,  the  clock 

Just  striking  three,  in  Europe  striking  eight : 

And  in  some  province,  in  some  palace,  hut, 

Some  words  are  spoken,  or  a  fisticuff 

Results  between  two  brawlers,  and  for  that 

A  blue-eyed  boy,  my  grandson,  we  may  say, 

Not  even  yet  in  seed,  but  to  be  born 

A  half  a  century  hence,  is  by  those  words, 

That  fisticuff,  drawn  into  war  in  Europe, 

Shrieks  from  a  bullet  through  the  groin,  and  lies 

Under  the  sod  of  France. 

[2] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

But  to  return 

To  Elenor  Murray,  I  have  made  a  book 
Called  Domesday  Book,  a  census  spiritual 
Taken  of  our  America,  or  in  part 
Taken,  not  wholly  taken,  it  may  be. 
For  William  Merival,  the  coroner, 
Who  probed  the  death  of  Elenor  Murray  goes 
As  far  as  may  be,  and  beyond  his  power, 
In  diagnosis  of  America, 

While  finding  out  the  cause  of  death.     In  short 
Becomes  a  William  the  Conqueror  that  way 
In  making  up  a  Domesday  Book  for  us.  ... 
Of  this  a  little  later.     But  before 
We  touch  upon  the  Domesday  book  of  old, 
We  take  up  Elenor  Murray,  show  her  birth ; 
Then  skip  all  time  between  and  show  her  death ; 
Then  take  up  Coroner  Merival  —  who  was  he? 
Then  trace  the  life  of  Elenor  Murray  through 
The  witnesses  at  the  inquest  on  the  body 
Of  Elenor  Murray ;  —  also  letters  written, 
And  essays  written,  conversations  heard, 
But  all  evoked  by  Elenor  Murray's  death. 
And  by  the  way  trace  riffles  here  and  there.  .  .  . 
A  word  now  on  the  Domesday  book  of  old : 
Remember  not  a  book  of  doom,  but  a  book 
Of  houses;  domus,  house,  so  domus  book. 
And  this  book  of  the  death  of  Elenor  Murray 
Is  not  a  book  of  doom,  though  showing  too 
How  fate  was  woven  round  her,  and  the  souls 
That  touched  her  soul ;  but  is  a  house  book  too 

[3] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Of  riches,  poverty,  and  weakness,  strength 
Of  this  our  country. 

If  you  take  St.  Luke 
You  find  an  angel  came  to  Mary,  said : 
Hail!  thou  art  highly  favored,  shalt  conceive, 
Bring  forth  a  son,  a  king  for  David's  throne: — 
So  tracing  life  before  the  life  was  born. 
We  do  the  same  for  Elenor  Murray,  though 
No  man  or  angel  said  to  Elenor's  mother : 
You  have  found  favor,  you  are  blessed  of  God, 
You  shall  conceive,  bring  forth  a  daughter  blest, 
And  blessing  you.     Quite  otherwise  the  case, 
As  being  blest  or  blessing,  something  like 
Perhaps,  in  that  desire,  or  flame  of  life, 
Which  gifts  new  souls  with  passion,  strength  and  love. 
This  is  the  manner  of  the  girl's  conception, 
And  of  her  birth : —  . 


THE  BIRTH  OF  ELENOR  MURRAY 

What  are  the  mortal  facts 
With  which  we  deal  ?     The  man  is  thirty  years, 
Most  vital,  in  a  richness  physical, 
Of  musical  heart  and  feeling;  and  the  woman 
Is  twenty-eight,  a  cradle  warm  and  rich 
For  life  to  grow  in. 

And  the  time  is  this: 
This  Henry  Murray  has  a  mood  of  peace, 

[4] 


THE  BIRTH  OF  ELENOR  MURRAY 

A  splendor  as  of  June,  has  for  the  time 

Quelled  anarchy  within  him,  come  to  law, 

Sees  life  a  thing  of  beauty,  happiness, 

And  fortune  glow  before  him.     And  the  mother, 

Sunning  her  feathers  in  his  genial  light, 

Takes  longing  and  has  hope.     For  body's  season 

The  blood  of  youth  leaps  in  them  like  a  fountain, 

And  splashes  musically  in  the  crystal  pool 

Of  quiet  days  and  hours.     They  rise  refreshed, 

Feel  all  the  sun's  strength  flow  through  muscles,  nerves; 

Extract  from  food  no  poison,  only  health ; 

Are  sensitive  to  simple  things,  the  turn 

Of  leaves  on  trees,  flowers  springing,  robins'  songs. 

Now  such  a  time  must  prosper  love's  desire, 
Fed  gently,  tended  wisely,  left  to  mount 
In  flame  and  light.     A  prospering  fate  occurs 
To  send  this  Henry  Murray  from  his  wife, 
And  keep  him  absent  for  a  month  —  inspire 
A  daily  letter,  written  of  the  joys, 
And  hopes  they  have  together,  and  omit, 
Forgotten  for  the  time,  old  aches,  despairs, 
Forebodings  for  the  future. 

What  results? 

For  thirty  days  her  youth,  and  youthful  blood 
Under  the  stimulus  of  absence,  letters, 
And  growing  longing,  laves  and  soothes  and  feeds, 
Like  streams  that  nourish  fields,  her  body's  being. 
Enriches  cells  to  plumpness,  dim,  asleep, 
Which  stretch,  expand  and  turn,  the  prototype 

[5] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Of  a  baby  newly  born ;  which  after  the  cry 
At  midnight,  taking  breath  an  hour  before, — 
That  cry  which  is  of  things  most  tragical, 
The  tragedy  most  poignant  —  sleeps  and  rests, 
And  flicks  its  little  ringers,  with  closed  eyes 
Senses  with  visions  of  unopened  leaves 
This  monstrous  and  external  sphere,  the  world, 
And  what  moves  in  it. 

So  she  thinks  of  him, 
And  longs  for  his  return,  and  as  she  longs 
The  rivers  of  her  body  run  and  ripple, 
Refresh  and  quicken  her.     The  morning's  light 
Flutters  upon  the  ceiling,  and  she  lies 
And  stretches  drowsily  in  the  breaking  slumber 
Of  fluctuant  emotion,  calls  to  him 
With  spirit  and  flesh,  until  his  very  name 
Seems  like  to  form  in  sound,  while  lips  are  closed, 
And  tongue  is  motionless,  beyond  herself, 
And  in  the  middle  spaces  of  the  room 
Calls  back  to  her. 

And  Henry  Murray  caught, 
In  letters,  which  she  sent  him,  all  she  felt, 
Re-kindled  it  and  sped  it  back  to  her. 
Then  came  a  lover's  fancy  in  his  brain : 
He  would  return  unlocked  for  —  who,  the  god, 
Inspired  the  fancy  ?  —  find  her  in  what  mood 
She  might  be  in  his  absence,  where  no  blur 
Of  expectation  of  his  coming  changed 
Her  color,  flame  of  spirit.     And  he  bought 

[6] 


THE  BIRTH  OF  ELENOR  MURRAY 

Some  chablis  and  a  cake,  slipped  noiselessly 
Into  the  chamber  where  she  lay  asleep, 
And  had  a  light  upon  her  face  before 
She  woke  and  saw  him. 

How  she  cried  her  joy! 
And  put  her  arms  around  him,  burned  away 
In  one  great  moment  from  a  goblet  of  fire, 
Which  over-flowed,  whatever  she  had  felt 
Of  shrinking  or  distaste,  or  loveless  hands 
At  any  time  before,  and  burned  it  there 
Till  even  the  ashes  sparkled,  blew  away 
In  incense  and  in  light. 

She  rose  and  slipped 
A  robe  on  and  her  slippers ;  drew  a  stand 
Between  them  for  the  chablis  and  the  cake. 
And  drank  and  ate  with  him,  and  showed  her  teeth, 
While  laughing,  shaking  curls,  and  flinging  back 
Her  head  for  rapture,  and  in  little  crows. 

And  thus  the  wine  caught  up  the  resting  cells, 
And  flung  them  in  the  current,  and  their  blood 
Flows  silently  and  swiftly,  running  deep ; 
And  their  two  hearts  beat  like  the  rhythmic  chimes 
Of  little  bells  of  steel  made  blue  by  flame, 
Because  their  lives  are  ready  now,  and  life 
Cries  out  to  life  for  life  to  be.     The  fire, 
Lit  in  the  altar  of  their  eyes,  is  blind 
For  mysteries  that  urge,  the  blood  of  them 
In  separate  streams  would  mingle,  hurried  on 

[7] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

By  energy  from  the  heights  of  ancient  mountains  ; 
The  God  himself,  and  Life,  the  Gift  of  God. 

And  as  result  the  hurrying  microcosms 
Out  of  their  beings  sweep,  seek  out,  embrace, 
Dance  for  the  rapture  of  freedom,  being  loosed; 
Unite,  achieve  their  destiny,  find  the  cradle 
Of  sleep  and  growth,  take  up  the  cryptic  task 
Of  maturation  and  of  fashioning; 
Where  no  light  is  except  the  light  of  God 
To  light  the  human  spirit,  which  emerges 
From  nothing  that  man  knows;  and  where  a  face, 
To  be  a  woman's  or  a  man's  takes  form: 
Hands  that  shall  gladden,  lips  that  shall  enthrall 
With  songs  or  kisses,  hands  and  lips,  perhaps, 
To  hurt  and  poison.     All  is  with  the  fates, 
And  all  beyond  us. 

Now  the  seed  is  sown, 

The  flower  must  grow  and  blossom.     Something  comes, 
Perhaps,  to  whisper  something  in  the  ear 
That  will  exert  itself  against  the  mass 
That  grows,  proliferates;  but  for  the  rest 
The  task  is  done.     One  thing  remains  alone: 
It  is  a  daughter,  woman,  that  you  bear, 
A  whisper  says  to  her  —  It  is  her  wish  — 
Her  wish  materializes  in  a  voice 
Which  says :  the  name  of  Elenor  is  sweet, 
Choose  that  for  her  —  Elenor,  which  is  light, 
The  light  of  Helen,  but  a  lesser  light 

[8] 


FINDING  OF  THE  BODY 

In  this  our  larger  world ;  a  light  to  shine, 
And  lure  amid  the  tangled  woodland  ways 
Of  this  our  life;  a  firefly  beating  wings 
Here,  there  amid  the  thickets  of  hard  days. 
And  to  go  out  at  last,  as  all  lights  do, 
And  leave  a  memory,  perhaps,  but  leave 
No  meaning  to  be  known  of  any  man.  .  .  . 
So  Elenor  Murray  is  conceived  and  born. 


But  now  this  Elenor  Murray  being  born, 

We  start  not  with  her  life,  but  with  her  death, 

The  finding  of  her  body  by  the  river. 

And  then  as  Coroner  Merival  takes  proof 

Her  life  comes  forth,  until  the  Coroner 

Traces  it  to  the  moment  of  her  death. 

And  thus  both  life  and  death  of  her  are  known. 

This  the  beginning  of  the  mystery :  — 


FINDING  OF  THE  BODY 

Elenor  Murray,  daughter  of  Henry  Murray, 
The  druggist  at  LeRoy,  a  village  near 
The  shadow  of  Starved  Rock,  this  Elenor 
But  recently  returned  from  France,  a  heart 
Who  gave  her  service  in  the  world  at  war, 
Was  found  along  the  river's  shore,  a  mile 
Above  Starved  Rock,  on  August  7th,  the  day 
Year  1679,  LaSalle  set  sail 

[9] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

For  Michilmackinac  to  reach  Green  Bay 
In  the  Griffin,  in  the  winter  snow  and  sleet, 
Reaching  "  Lone  Cliff,"  Starved  Rock  its  later  name, 
Also  La  Vantum,  village  of  the  tribe 
Called  Mini. 

This  may  be  taken  to  speak 
The  symbol  of  her  life  and  fate.     For  first 
This  Elenor  Murray  comes  into  this  life, 
And  lives  her  youth  where  the  Rock's  shadow  falls, 
As  if  to  say  her  life  should  starve  and  lie 
Beneath  a  shadow,  wandering  in  the  world, 
As  Cavalier  LaSalle  did,  born  at  Rouen, 
Shot  down  on  Trinity  River,  Texas.     She 
Searches  for  life  and  conquest  of  herself 
With  the  same  sleepless  spirit  of  LaSalle ; 
And  comes  back  to  the  shadow  of  the  Rock, 
And  dies  beneath  its  shadow.     Cause  of  death  ? 
Was  she  like  Sieur  LaSalle  shot  down,  or  choked, 
Struck,  poisoned?     Let  the  coroner  decide. 
Who,  hearing  of  the  matter,  takes  the  body 
And  brings  it  to  LeRoy,  is  taking  proofs ; 
Lets  doctors  cut  the  body,  probe  and  peer 
To  find  the  cause  of  death. 

And  so  this  morning 
Of  August  7th,  as  a  hunter  walks  — 
Looking  for  rabbits  maybe,  aimless  hunting  — 
Over  the  meadow  where  the  Illini's 
La  Vantum  stood  two  hundred  years  before, 

[10]   ' 


FINDING  OF  THE  BODY 

Gun  over  arm  in  readiness  for  game, 

Sees  some  two  hundred  paces  to  the  south 

Bright  colors,  red  and  blue ;  thinks  off  the  bat 

A  human  body  lies  there,  hurries  on 

And  finds  the  girl's  dead  body,  hatless  head, 

The  hat  some  paces  off,  as  if  she  fell 

In  such  way  that  the  hat  dashed  off.     Her  arms 

Lying  outstretched,  the  body  half  on  side, 

The  face  upturned  to  heaven,  open  eyes 

That  might  have  seen  Starved  Rock  until  the  eyes 

Sank  down  in  darkness  where  no  image  comes. 

This  hunter  knew  the  body,  bent  and  looked ; 
Gave  forth  a  gasp  of  horror,  leaned  and  touched 
The  cold  hand  of  the  dead :  saw  in  her  pocket, 
Sticking  above  the  pocket's  edge  a  banner, 
And  took  it  forth,  saw  it  was  Joan  of  Arc 
In  helmet  and  cuirass,  kneeling  in  prayer. 
And  in  the  banner  a  paper  with  these  words: 
"  To  be  brave,  and  not  to  flinch."     And  standing  there 
This  hunter  knew  that  Elenor  Murray  came 
Some  days  before  from  France,  was  visiting 
An  aunt,  named  Irma  Leese  beyond  LeRoy. 
What  was  she  doing  by  the  river's  shore? 
He  saw  no  mark  upon  her,  and  no  blood  ; 
No  pistol  by  her,  nothing  disarranged 
Of  hair  or  clothing,  showing  struggle  —  nothing 
To  indicate  the  death  she  met.     Who  saw  her 
Before  or  when  she  died?     How  long  had  death 
Been  on  her  eyes?     Some  hours,  or  over-night. 

[ii] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  hunter  touched  her  hand,  already  stiff; 
And  saw  the  dew  upon  her  hair  and  brow, 
And  a  blue  deadness  in  her  eyes,  like  pebbles. 
The  lips  were  black,  and  bottle  flies  had  come 
To  feed  upon  her  tongue.     'Tis  ten  o'clock, 
The  coolness  of  the  August  night  unchanged 
By  this  spent  sun  of  August.     And  the  moon 
Lies  dead  and  wasted  there  beyond  Starved  Rock. 
The  moon  was  beautiful  last  night!     To  walk 
Beside  the  river  under  the  August  moon 
Took  Elenor  Murray's  fancy,  as  he  thinks. 
Then  thinking  of  the  aunt  of  Elenor  Murray, 
Who  should  be  notified,  the  hunter  runs 
To  tell  the  aunt  —  but  there's  the  coroner  — 
Is  there  not  law  the  coroner  should  know  ? 
Should  not  the  body  lie,  as  it  was  found, 
Until  the  coroner  takes  charge  of  it  ? 
Should  not  he  stand  on  guard?     And  so  he  runs, 
And  from  a  farmer's  house  by  telephone 
Sends  word  to  Coroner  Merival.     Then  returns 
And  guards  the  body. 

Here  is  riffle  first: 

The  coroner  sat  with  his  traveling  bags, 
Was  closing  up  his  desk,  had  planned  a  trip 
With  boon  companions,  they  were  with  him  there ; 
The  auto  waited  at  the  door  to  take  them 
To  catch  the  train  for  northern  Michigan. 
He  closed  the  desk  and  they  arose  to  go. 
Just  then  the  telephone  began  to  ring, 

[12] 


THE  CORONER 

The  hunter  at  the  other  end  was  talking, 

And  told  of  Elenor  Murray.     Merival 

Turned  to  his  friends  and  said:  "  The  jig  is  up. 

Here  is  an  inquest,  and  of  moment  too. 

I  cannot  go,  but  you  jump  in  the  car, 

And  go  —  you'll  catch  the  train  if  you  speed  up." 

They  begged  him  to  permit  his  deputy 

To  hold  the  inquest.     Merival  said  "  no," 

And  waived  them  off.     They  left.     He  got  a  car 

And  hurried  to  the  place  where  Eleanor  lay.  .  .  . 

Now  who  was  Merival  the  Coroner? 

For  we  shall  know  of  Elenor  through  him, 

And  know  her  better,  knowing  Merival. 


THE  CORONER 

Merival,  of  a  mother  fair  and  good, 
A  father  sound  in  body  and  in  mind, 
Rich  through  three  thousand  acres  left  to  him 
By  that  same  father  dying,  mother  dead 
These  many  years,  a  bachelor,  lived  alone 
In  the  rambling  house  his  father  built  of  stone 
Cut  from  the  quarry  near  at  hand,  above 
The  river's  bend,  before  it  meets  the  island 
Where  Starved  Rock  rises. 

Here  he  had  returned, 
After  his  Harvard  days,  took  up  the  task 
Of  these  three  thousand  acres,  while  his  father 

[13] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Aging,  relaxed  his  hand.     From  farm  to  farm 
Rode  daily,  kept  the  books,  bred  cattle,  sheep, 
Raised  seed  corn,  tried  the  secrets  of  DeVries, 
And  Burbank  in  plant  breeding. 

Day  by  day, 

His  duties  ended,  he  sat  at  a  window 
In  a  great  room  of  books  where  lofty  shelves 
Were  packed  with  cracking  covers;  newer  books 
Flowed  over  on  the  tables,  round  the  globes 
And  statuettes  of  bronze.     Upon  the  wall 
The  portraits  hung  of  father  and  of  mother, 
And  two  moose  heads  above  the  mantel  stared, 
The  trophies  of  a  hunt  in  youth. 

So  Merival 

At  a  bay  window  sat  in  the  great  room, 
Felt  and  beheld  the  stream  of  life  and  thought 
Flow  round  and  through  him,  to  a  sound  in  key 
With  his  own  consciousness,  the  murmurous  voice 
Of  his  own  soul. 

Along  a  lawn  that  sloped 
Some  hundred  feet  to  the  river  he  would  muse. 
Or  through  the  oaks  and  elms  and  silver  birches 
Between  the  plots  of  flowers  and  rows  of  box 
Look  at  the  distant  scene  of  hilly  woodlands. 
And  why  no  woman  in  his  life,  no  face 
Smiling  from  out  the  summer  house  of  roses, 
Such  riotous  flames  against  the  distant  green? 


THE  CORONER 

And  why  no  sons  and  daughters,  strong  and  fair, 
To  use  these  horses,  ponies,  tramp  the  fields, 
Shout  from  the  tennis  court,  swim,  skate  and  row? 
He  asked  himself  the  question  many  times, 
And  gave  himself  the  answer.     It  was  this: 

At  twenty-five  a  woman  crossed  his  path  — 

Let's  have  the  story  as  the  world  believes  it, 

Then  have  the  truth.     She  was  betrothed  to  him, 

But  went  to  France  to  study,  died  in  France. 

And  so  he  mourned  her,  kept  her  face  enshrined, 

Was  wedded  to  her  spirit,  could  not  brook 

The  coming  of  another  face  to  blur 

This  face  of  faces !     So  the  story  went 

Around  the  country.     But  his  grief  was  not 

The  grief  they  told.     The  pang  that  gnawed  his  heart, 

And  took  his  spirit,  dulled  his  man's  desire 

Took  root  in  shame,  defeat,  rejected  love. 

He  had  gone  east  to  meet  her  and  to  wed  her, 

Now  turned  his  thirtieth  year;  when  he  arrived 

He  found  his  dear  bride  flown,  a  note  for  him, 

Left  with  the  mother,  saying  she  had  flown, 

And  could  not  marry  him,  it  would  not  do, 

She  did  not  love  him  as  a  woman  should 

Who  makes  a  pact  for  life;  her  heart  was  set 

For  now  upon  her  music,  she  was  off 

To  France  for  study,  wished  him  well,  in  truth  — 

Some  woman  waited  him  who  was  his  mate.  .  .  . 

So  Merival  read  over  many  times 

The  letter,  tried  to  find  a  secret  hope 

[15] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Lodged  back  of  words  —  was  this  a  woman's  way 

To  lure  him  further,  win  him  to  more  depths? 

He  half  resolved  to  follow  her  to  France ; 

Then  as  he  thought  of  what  he  was  himself 

In  riches,  breeding,  place,  and  manliness 

His  egotism  rose,  fed  by  the  hurt: 

She  might  stay  on  in  France  for  aught  he  cared ! 

What  was  she,  anyway,  that  she  could  lose 

Such  happiness  and  love?  for  he  had  given 

In  a  .great  passion  out  of  a  passionate  heart 

All  that  was  in  him  —  who  was  she  to  spurn 

A  gift  like  this?     Yet  always  in  his  heart 

Stirred  something  which  by  him  was  love  and  hate. 

And  when  the  word  came  she  had  died,  the  word 

She  loved  a  maestro,  and  the  word  like  gas, 

Which  poisons,  creeps  and  is  not  known,  that  death 

Came  to  her  somehow  through  a  lawless  love, 

Or  broken  love,  disaster  of  some  sort, 

His  spirit  withered  with  its  bitterness. 

And  in  the  years  to  come  he  feared  to  give 

With  unreserve  his  heart,  his  leaves  withheld 

From  possible  frost,  dreamed  on  and  drifted  on 

Afraid  to  venture,  having  scarcely  strength 

To  seek  and  try,  endure  defeat  again. 

Thus  was  his  youth  unsatisfied,  and  as  hope 
Of  something  yet  to  be  to  fill  his  hope 
Died  not,  but  with  each  dawn  awoke  to  move 
Its  wings,  his  youth  continued  past  his  years. 
The  very  cry  of  youth,  which  would  not  cease 

[16] 


THE  CORONER 

Kept  all  the  dreams  and  passions  of  his  youth 
Wakeful,  expectant  —  kept  his  face  and  frame 
Rosy  and  agile  as  he  neared  the  mark 
Of  fifty  years. 

But  every  day  he  sat 

As  one  who  waited.     What  would  come  to  him? 
What  soul  would  seek  him  in  this  room  of  books? 
But  yet  no  soul  he  found  when  he  went  forth, 
Breaking  his  solitude,  to  towns. 

What  waste 

Thought  Merival,  of  spirit,  but  what  waste 
Of  spirit  in  the  lives  he  knew!     What  homes 
Where  children  starve  for  bread,  or  starve  for  love, 
Half  satisfied,  half-schooled  are  driven  forth 
With  aspirations  broken,  or  with  hopes 
Or  talents  bent  or  blasted !     O,  what  wives 
Drag  through  the  cheerless  days,  what  marriages 
Cling  and  exhaust  to  death,  and  warp  and  stain 
The  children !     If  a  business,  like  this  farm, 
Were  run  on  like  economy,  a  year 
Would  see  its  ruin !     But  he  thought,  at  last, 
Of  spiritual  economy,  so  to  save 
The  lives  of  men  and  women,  use  their  powers 
To  ends  that  suit. 

And  thus  when  on  a  time 
A  miner  lost  his  life  there  at  LeRoy, 
And  when  the  inquest  found  the  man  was  killed 

[17] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Through  carelessness  of  self,  while  full  of  drink, 
Merival,  knowing  that  the  drink  was  caused 
By  hopeless  toil  and  by  a  bitter  grief 
Touching  a  daughter,  who  had  strayed  and  died, 
First  wondered  if  in  cases  like  to  this 
Good  might  result,  if  there  was  brought  to  light 
All  secret  things;  and  in  the  course  of  time, 
If  many  deaths  were  probed,  a  store  of  truth 
Might  not  be  gathered  which  some  genius  hand 
Could  use  to  work  out  laws,  instructions,  systems 
For  saving  and  for  using  wasting  spirits, 
So  wasted  in  the  chaos,  in  the  senseless 
Turmoil  and  madness  of  this  reckless  life, 
Which  treats  the  spirit  as  the  cheapest  thing, 
Since  it  is  so  abundant. 

Thoughts  like  these 
Led  Merival  to  run  for  coroner. 
The  people  wondered  why  he  sought  the  office. 
But  when  they  gave  it  to  him,  and  he  used 
His  private  purse  to  seek  for  secret  faults, 
In  lives  grown  insupportable,  for  causes 
Which  prompted  suicide,  the  people  wondered, 
The  people  murmured  sometimes,  and  his  foes 
Mocked  or  traduced  his  purpose. 

Merival 

The  coroner  is  now  two  years  in  office 
When  Henry  Murray's  daughter  Elenor 
Found  by  the  river,  gives  him  work  to  do 
[18] 


THE  CORONER 

In  searching  out  her  life's  fate,  cause  of  death, 

How,  in  what  manner,  and  by  whom  or  what 

Said  Elenor's  dead  body  came  to  death ; 

And  of  all  things  which  might  concern  the  same, 

With  all  the  circumstances  pertinent, 

Material  or  in  anywise  related, 

Or  anywise  connected  with  said  death. 

And  as  in  other  cases  Merival 

Construed  the  words  of  law,  as  written  above: 

All  circumstances  material  or  related, 

Or  anywise  connected  with  said  death, 

To  give  him  power  as  coroner  to  probe 

To  ultimate  secrets,  causes  intimate 

In  birth,  environment,  crises  of  the  soul, 

Grief,  disappointment,  hopes  deferred  or  ruined. 

So  now  he  exercised  his  power  to  strip 

This  woman's  life  of  vestments,  to  lay  bare 

Her  soul,  though  other  souls  should  run  and  rave 

For  nakedness  and  shame. 

So    Merival 

Returning  irom  the  river  with  the  body 
Of  Elenor  Murray  thought  about  the  woman; 
Recalled  her  school  days  in  LeRoy  —  the  night 
When  she  was  graduated  at  the  High  School;  thought 
About  her  father,  mother,  girlhood  friends; 
And  stories  of  her  youth  came  back  to  him. 
The  whispers  of  her  leaving  home,  the  trips 
She  took,  her  father's  loveless  ways.     And  wonder 
For  what  she  did  and  made  of  self,  possessed 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

His  thinking;  and  the  fancy  grew  in  him 
No  chance  for  like  appraisal  had  been  his 
Of  human  worth  and  waste,  this  man  who  knew 
Both  life  and  books.     And  lately  he  had  read 
The  history  of  King  William  and  his  book. 
And  even  the  night  before  this  Elenor's  body 
IWas  found  beside  the  river  —  this  he  read, 
Perhaps,  he  thought,  was  reading  it  when  Elenor 
Was  struck  down  or  was  choked.     How  strange  the  hour 
Whose  separate  place  finds  Merival  with  a  book, 
And  Elenor  with  death,  brings  them  together, 
And  for  result  blends  book  and  death!  ...  He  knew 
By  Domesday  Book  King  William  had  a  record 
Of  all  the  crown's  possessions,  had  the  names 
Of  all  land-holders,  had  the  means  of  knowing 
The  kingdom's  strength  for  war ;  it  gave  the  data 
How  to  increase  the  kingdom's  revenue. 
It  was  a  record  in  a  case  of  titles, 
Disputed  or  at  issue  to  appeal  to. 
So  Merival  could  say:  My  inquests  show 
The  country's  wealth  or  poverty  in  souls, 
And  what  the  country's  strength  is,  who  by  right 
May  claim  his  share-ship  in  the  country's  life; 
How  to  increase  the  country's  glory,  power. 
Why  not  a  Domesday  Book  in  which  are  shown 
A  certain  country's  tenures  spiritual? 
And  if  great  William  held  great  council  once 
To  make  inquiry  of  the  nation's  wealth, 
Shall  not  I  as  a  coroner  in  America, 
Inquiring  of  a  woman's  death,  make  record 
[20] 


THE  CORONER 

Of  lives  which  have  touched  hers,  what  lives  she  touched ; 
And  how  her  death  by  surest  logic  touched 
This  life  or  that,  was  cause  of  causes,  proved 
The  event  that  made  events? 

So   Merival 

Brought  in  a  jury  for  the  inquest  work 
As  follows:  Winthrop  Marion,  learned  and  mellow, 
A  journalist  in  Chicago,  keeping  still 
His  residence  at  LeRoy.     And  David  Borrow, 
A  sunny  pessimist  of  varied  life, 
Ingenious  thought,  a  lawyer  widely  read. 
And  Samuel  Ritter,  owner  of  the  bank, 
A  classmate  of  the  coroner  at  Harvard. 
Llewellyn  George,  but  lately  come  from  China, 
A  traveler,  intellectual,  anti-social 
Searcher  for  life  and  beauty,  devotee 
Of  such  diversities  as  Nietzsche,  Plato. 
Also  a  Reverend  Maiworm  noted  for 
Charitable  deeds  and  dreams.     And  Isaac  Newfeldt 
Who  in  his  youth  had  studied  Adam  Smith, 
And  since  had  studied  tariffs,  lands  and  money, 
Economies  of  nations. 

And  because 

They  were  the  friends  of  Merival,  and  admired 
His  life  and  work,  they  dropped  their  several  tasks 
To  serve  as  jurymen. 

The  hunter  came 
And  told  his  story :  how  he  found  the  body, 

[21] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

What  hour  it  was,  and  how  the  body  lay ; 

About  the  banner  infche  woman's  pocket, 

Which  Coroner  Merival  had  taken,  seen, 

And  wondered  over.     For  if  Elenor 

Was  not  a  Joan  too,  why  treasure  this  ? 

Did  she  take  Joan's  spirit  for  her  guide? 

And  write  these  words :  "  To  be  brave  and  not  to  flinch 

She  wrote  them ;  for  her  father  said :  "  It's  true 

That  is  her  writing,''  when  he  saw  the  girl 

First  brought  to  Merival's  office. 

Merival 

Amid  this  business  gets  a  telegram: 
Tom  Norman  drowned,  one  of  the  men  with  whom 
He  planned  this  trip  to  Michigan.     Later  word 
Tom  Norman  and  the  other,  Wilbur  Home 
Are  in  a  motor-boat.     Tom  rises  up 
To  get  the  can  of  bait  and  pitches  out, 
His  friend  leaps  out  to  help  him.     But  the  boat 
Goes  on,  the  engine  going,  there  they  fight 
For  life  amid  the  waves.     Tom  has  been  hurt, 
Somehow  in  falling,  cannot  save  himself, 
And  tells  his  friend  to  leave  him,  swim  away. 
His  friend  is  forced  at  last  to  swim  away, 
And  makes  the  mile  to  shore  by  hardest  work. 
Tom  Norman,  dead,  leaves  wife  and  children  caught 
In  business  tangles  which  he  left  to  build 
New  strength,  to  disentangle,  on  the  trip. 
The  rumor  goes  that  Tom  was  full  of  drink, 
Thus  lost  his  life.     But  if  our  Elenor  Murray 

[22] 


HENRY  MURRAY 

Had  not  been  found  beside  the  river,  what 

Had  happened?     If  the  coroner  had  been  there, 

And  run  the  engine,  steered  the  boat  beside 

The  drowning  man,  and  Wilbur  Home  —  what  drink 

Had  caused  the  death  of  Norman?     Or  again, 

Perhaps  the  death  of  Elenor  saved  the  life 

Of  Merival,  by  keeping  him  at  home 

And  safe  from  boats  and  waters. 

Anyway, 

As  Elenor  Murray's  body  has  no  marks, 
And  shows  no  cause  of  death,  the  coroner 
Sends  out  for  Dr.  Trace  and  talks  to  him 
Of  things  that  end  us,  says  to  Dr.  Trace 
Perform  the  autopsy  on  Elenor  Murray. 
And  while  the  autopsy  was  being  made 
By  Dr.  Trace,  he  calls  the  witnesses 
The  father  first  of  Elenor  Murray,  who 
Tells  Merival  this  story: 


HENRY  MURRAY 

Henry  Murray,  father  of  Elenor  Murray, 

Willing  to  tell  the  coroner  Merival 

All  things  about  himself,  about  his  wife, 

All  things  as  well  about  his  daughter,  touching 

Her  growth,  and  home  life,  if  the  coroner 

Would  hear  him  privately,  save  on  such  things 

[23] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Strictly  relating  to  the  inquest,  went 

To  Coroner  Merival's  office  and  thus  spoke: 

I  was  born  here  some  sixty  years  ago, 

Was  nurtured  in  these  common  schools,  too  poor 

To  satisfy  a  longing  for  a  college. 

Felt  myself  gifted  with  some  gifts  of  mind, 

Some  fineness  of  perception,  thought,  began 

By  twenty  years  to  gather  books  and  read 

Some  history,  philosophy  and  science. 

Had  vague  ambitions,  analyzed  perhaps, 

To  learn,  be  wise. 

Now  if  you  study  me, 

Look  at  my  face,  you'll  see  some  trace  of  her: 
My  brow  is  hers,  my  mouth  is  hers,  my  eyes 
Of  lighter  color  are  yet  hers,  this  way 
I  have  of  laughing,  as  I  saw  inside 
The  matter  deeper  cause  for  laughter,  hers. 
And  my  jaw  hers  betokening  a  will, 
Hers  too,  with  chin  that  mitigates  the  will, 
Shading  to  softness  as  hers  did. 

Our  minds 

Had  something  too  in  common:  first  this  will 
Which  tempted  fate  to  bend  it,  break  it  too  — 
I  know  not  why  in  her  case  or  in  mine. 
But  when  my  will  is  bent  I  grow  morose, 
And  when  it's  broken,  I  become  a  scourge 
To  all  around  me.     Yes,  I've  visited 
A  life-time's  wrath  upon  my  wife.     This  daughter 

[24] 


HENRY  MURRAY 

When  finding  will  subdued  did  not  give  up, 

But  took  the  will  for  something  else  —  went  on 

By  ways  more  prosperous ;  but  alas !  poor  me ! 

I  hold  on  when  defeated,  and  lie  down 

When  I  am  beaten,  growling,  ruminate 

Upon  my  failure,  think  of  nothing  else. 

But  truth  to  tell,  while  we  two  were  opposed, 

This  daughter  and  myself,  while  temperaments 

Kept  us  at  sword's  points,  while  I  saw  in  her 

Traits  of  myself  I  liked  not,  also  traits 

Of  the  child's  mother  which  I  loathe,  because 

They  have  undone  me,  helped  at  least  —  no  less 

I  see  this  child  as  better  than  myself, 

And  better  than  her  mother,  so  admire. 

Also  I  never  trusted  her;  as  a  child 

She  would  rush  in  relating  lying  wonders ; 

She  feigned  emotions,  purposes  and  moods; 

She  was  a  little  actress  from  the  first, 

And  all  her  high  resolves  from  first  to  last 

Seemed  but  a  robe  with  flowing  sleeves  in  which 

Her  hands  could  hide  some  theft,  some  secret  spoil. 

When  she  was  fourteen  I  could  see  in  her 

The  passionate  nature  of  her  mother  —  well 

You  know  a  father's  feelings  when  he  sees 

His  daughter  sensed  by  youths  and  lusty  men 

As  one  of  the  kind  for  capture.     It's  a  theme 

A  father  cannot  talk  of  with  his  daughter. 

He  may  say,  "  have  a  care,"  or  "  I  forbid 

Your  strolling,  riding  with  these  boys  at  night." 

But  if  the  daughter  stands  and  eyes  the  father, 

[25] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

As  she  did  me  with  flaming  eyes,  then  goes 

Her  way  in  secret,  lies  about  her  ways, 

The  father  can  but  wonder,  watch  or  brood, 

Or  switch  her  maybe,  for  I  switched  her  once, 

And  found  it  did  no  good.     I  needed  here 

The  mother's  aid,  but  no,  her  mother  saw 

Herself  in  the  girl,  and  said  she  knew  the  girl, 

That  I  was  too  suspicious,  out  of  touch 

With  a  young  girl's  life,  desire  for  happiness. 

But  when  this  Alma  Bell  affair  came  up,  ; 

And  the  school  principal  took  pains  to  say 

My  daughter  was  too  reckless  of  her  name 

In  strolling  and  in  riding,  then  my  wife 

Howled  at  me  like  a  tigress :  whip  that  man ! 

And  as  my  daughter  cried,  and  my  wife  screeched, 

And  called  me  coward  if  I  let  him  go, 

I  rushed  out  to  the  street  and  finding  him 

Beat  up  his  face,  though  almost  dropping  dead 

From  my  exertion.     Well,  the  aftermath 

Was  worse  for  me,  not  only  by  the  talk, 

But  in  my  mind  who  saw  no  gratitude 

In  daughter  or  in  mother  for  my  deed. 

The  daughter  from  that  day  took  up  a  course 

More  secret  from  my  eyes,  more  variant 

From  any  wish  I  had.     We  stood  apart, 

And  grew  apart  thereafter.     And  from  that  day 

My  wife  grew  worse  in  temper,  worse  in  nerves. 

And  though  the  people  say  she  is  my  slave, 

That  I  alone,  of  all  who  live,  have  conquered 

Her  spirit,  still  what  despotism  works 

[26] 


HENRY  MURRAY 

Free  of  reprisals,  or  of  breakings-forth 
When  hands  are  here,  not  there? 

But  to  return: 

One  takes  up  something  for  a  livelihood, 
And  dreams  he'll  leave  it  later,  when  in  time 
His  plans  mature;  and  as  he  earns  and  lives, 
With  some  time  for  his  plans,  hopes  for  the  day 
When  he  may  step  forth  from  his  olden  life 
Into  a  new  life  made  thus  gradually, 
I  hoped  to  be  a  lawyer;  but  to  live 
I  started  as  a  drug  clerk  —  look  to-day 
I  own  that  little  drug  store  —  here  I  am 
With  drugs  my  years  through,  drugged  myself  at  last. 
And  as  a  clerk  I  met  my  wife  —  went  mad 
About  her,  and  I  see  in  Elenor 
Her  mother's  gift  for  making  fools  of  men. 
Why,  I  can  scarce  explain  it,  it's  the  flesh, 
But  then  it's  spirit  too.     Such  flaming  up 
As  came  from  flames  like  ours,  but  more  of  hers 
Burned  in  the  children.     Yes,  it  might  be  well 
For  theorists  in  heredity  to  think 
About  the  matter. 

Well,  but  how  about 

The  flames  that  make  the  children?     For  this  woman 
Too  surely  ruined  me  and  sapped  my  life. 
You  hear  much  of  the  vampire,  but  what  wife 
Has  not  more  chance  for  eating  up  a  man  ? 
She  has  him  daily,  has  him  fast  for  years. 

[27] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

A  man  can  shake  a  vampire  off,  but  how 

To  shake  a  wife  off,  when  the  children  come, 

And  you  must  leave  your  place,  your  livelihood 

To  shake  her  off?     And  if  you  shake  her  off 

Where  do  you  go  ?  what  do  you  do  ?  and  how  ? 

You  see  'twas  love  that  caught  me,  yet  even  so 

I  had  resisted  love  had  I  not  seen 

A  chance  to  rise  through  marriage.     It  was  this: 

You  know,  of  course,  my  wife  was  Elenor  Fouche, 

Daughter  of  Arthur,  thought  to  be  so  rich. 

And  I  had  hopes  to  patch  my  fortunes  up 

In  this  alliance,  and  become  a  lawyer. 

What  happened  ?     Why  they  helped  me  not  at  all. 

The  children  came,  and  I  was  chained  to  work, 

To  clothe  and  feed  a  family  —  all  the  while 

My  soul  combusted  with  this  aspiration, 

And  my  good  nature  went  to  ashes,  dampened 

By  secret  tears  which  filtered  through  as  lye. 

Then  finally,  when  my  wife's  father  died, 

After  our  marriage,  twenty  years  or  so, 

His  fortune  came  to  nothing,  all  she  got 

Went  to  that  little  house  we  live  in  here  — 

It  needs  paint  now,  the  porch  has  rotten  boards  — 

And  I  was  forced  to  see  these  children  learn 

What  public  schools  could  teach,  and  even  as  I 

Left  school  half  taught,  and  never  went  to  college, 

So  did  these  children,  saving  Elenor, 

Who  saw  two  years  of  college  —  earned  herself 

By  teaching.     I  choke  up,  just  wait  a  minute! 

What  depths  of  calmness  may  a  man  come  to 


HENRY  MURRAY 

As  father,  who  can  think  of  this  and  be 

Quiet  about  his  heart?     His  heart  will  hurt, 

Move,  as  it  were,  as  a  worm  does  with  its  pain. 

And  these  days  now,  when  trembling  hands  and  head 

Foretell  decline,  or  worse,  and  make  me  think 

As  face  to  face  with  God,  most  earnestly, 

Most  eager  for  the  truth,  I  wonder  much 

If  I  misjudged  this  daughter,  canvass  her 

Myself  to  see  if  I  had  power  to  do 

A  better  part  by  her.     That  is  the  way 

This  daughter  has  got  in  my  soul.     At  first 

She  incubates  in  me  as  force  unknown, 

A  spirit  strange  yet  kindred,  in  my  "life; 

And  we  are  hostile  and  yet  drawn  together; 

But  when  we're  drawn  together  see  and  feel 

These  oppositions.     Next  she's  in  my  life  — 

The  second  stage  of  the  fever  —  as  dislike, 

Repugnance,  and  I  wish  her  out  of  sight, 

Out  of  my  life.     Then  comes  these  ugly  things, 

Like  Alma  Bell,  and  rumors  from  away 

Where  she  is  teaching,  and  I  put  her  out 

Of  life  and  thought  the  more,  and  wonder  why 

I  fathered  such  a 'nature,  whence  it  came. 

Well,  then  the  fever  goes  and  I  am  weak, 

Repentant  it  may  be,  delirious  visions 

That  haunted  me  in  fever  plague  me  yet, 

Even  while  I  think  them  visions,  nothing  else. 

So  I  grow  pitiful  and  blame  myself 

For  any  part  I  had  in  her  mistakes, 

Sorrows  and  struggles,  and  I  curse  myself 

[29] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

That  I  was  powerless  to  help  her  more  — 
Thus  is  she  like  a  fever  in  my  life. 

Well,  then  the  child  grows  up.     But  as  a  child 

She  dances,  laughs  and  sings.     At  three  years  springs 

For  minutes  and  for  minutes  on  her  toes, 

Like  skipping  rope,  clapping  her  hands  the  while, 

Her  blue  eyes  twinkling,  and  her  milk-white  teeth 

Glistening  as  she  gurgled,  shouted,  laughed  — 

There  never  was  such  vital  strength.     I  give 

The  pictures  as  my  memory  took  them.     Next 

I  see  her  looking  side-ways  at  me,  as  if 

She  studied  me,  avoided  me.     The  child 

Is  now  ten  years  of  age;  and  now  I  know 

She  smelled  the  rats  that  made  the  family  hearth 

A  place  for  scampering;  the  horrors  of  our  home. 

She  thought  I  brought  the  rats  and  kept  them  there, 

These  rats  of  bickering,  anger,  strife  at  home. 

I  knew  she  blamed  me  for  her  mother's  moods 

Who  dragged  about  the  kitchen  day  by  day, 

Sad  faced  and  silent.     So  the  upshot  was 

I  had  two  enemies  in  the  house,  where  once 

I  had  but  one,  her  mother.     This  made  worse 

The  state  for  both,  and  worse  the  state  for  me. 

And  so  it  goes.     Then  next  there's  Alma  Bell. 

The  following  year  my  daughter  finished  up 

The  High  School  —  and  we  sit  —  my  wife  and  I 

To  see  the  exercises.     And  that  summer  Elenor, 

Now  eighteen  and  a  woman,  goes  about  — 

I  don't  know  what  she  does,  sometimes  I  see 

[30] 


HENRY  MURRAY 

Some  young  man  with  her  walking.     But  at  home, 
When  I  come  in,  the  mother  and  the  daughter 
Put  pedals  on  their  talk,  or  change  the  theme  — 
I  am  shut  out. 

And  in  the  fall  I  learn 

From  some  outsider  that  she's  teaching*  school, 
And  later  people  laugh  and  talk  to  me 
About  her  feat  of  cowing  certain  Czechs, 
Who  broke  her  discipline  in  school. 

Well,  then 

Two  years  go  on  that  have  no  memory, 
Just  like  sick  days  in  bed  when  you  lie  there 
And  wake  and  sleep  and  wait.     But  finally 
Her  mother  says :  "  To-night  our  Elenor 
Leaves  for  Los  Angeles."     And  then  the  mother, 
To  hide  a  sob,  coughs  nervously  and  leaves 
The  room  where  I  am,  for  the  kitchen  —  I 
Sit  with  the  evening  paper,  let  it  fall, 
Then  hold  it  up  to  read  again  and  try 
To  say  to  self,  "  All  right,  what  if  she  goes?  " 
The  evening  meal  goes  hard,  for  Elenor 
Shines  forth  in  kindness  for  me,  talks  and  laughs  — 
I  choke  again.  .  .  .  She  says  to  me  if  God 
Had  meant  her  for  a  better  youth,  then  God 
Had  given  her  a  better  youth;  she  thanks  me 
For  making  High  School  possible  to  her, 
And  says  all  will  be  well  —  she  will  earn  money 
To  go  to  college,  that  she  will  gain  strength 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

By  helping  self  —  Just  think,  my  friend,  to  hear 

Such  words,  which  in  their  kindness  proved  my  failure, 

When  I  had  hoped,  aspired,  when  I  had  given 

My  very  soul,  whether  I  liked  this  daughter, 

Or  liked  her  not,  out  of  a  generous  hand, 

Large  hearted  in  its  carelessness  to  give 

A  daughter  of  such  mind  a  place  in  life, 

And  schooling  for  the  place. 

The  meal  was  over. 

We  stood  there  silent;  then  her  face  grew  wet 
With  tears,  as  wet  as  blossoms  soaked  with  rain. 
She  took  my  hand  and  took  her  mother's  hand, 
And  put  our  hands  together  —  then  she  said : 
"  Be  friends,  be  friends,"  and  hurried  from  the  room, 
Her  mother  following.     I  stepped  out-doors, 
And  stood  what  seemed  a  minute,  entered  again, 
Walked  to  the  front  room,  from  the  window  saw 
Elenor  and  her  mother  in  the  street. 
The  girl  was  gone!     How  could  I  follow  them? 
They  had  not  asked  me.     So  I  stood  and  saw 
The  canvas  telescope  her  mother  carried. 
They  disappeared.     I  went  back  to  my  store, 
Came  back  at  nine  o'clock,  lighted  a  match 
And  saw  my  wife  in  bed,  cloths  on  her  eyes. 
She  turned  her  face  to  the  wall,  and  didn't  speak. 

Next  morning  at  the  breakfast  table  she, 
Complaining  of  a  stiff  arm,  said:  "  that  satchel 
Was  weighted  down  with  books,  my  arm  is  stiff  — 

[32] 


HENRY  MURRAY 

Elenor  took  French  books  to  study  French. 
When  she  can  pay  a  teacher,  she  will  learn 
How  to  pronounce  the  words,  but  by  herself 
She'll  learn  the  grammar,  how  to  read."     She  knew 
How  words  like  that  would  hurt! 

I  merely  said: 

"  A  happy  home  is  better  than  knowing  French," 
And  went  off  to  my  store. 

But  coroner, 

Search  for  the  men  in  her  life.     When  she  came 
Back  from  the  West  after  three  years,  I  knew 
By  look  of  her  eyes  that  some  one  filled  her  life, 
Had  taken  her  life  and  body.     What  if  I 
Had  failed  as  father  in  the  way  I  failed? 
And  what  if  our  home  was  not  home  to  her? 
She  could  have  married  —  why  not?     If  a  girl 
Can  fascinate  the  men  —  I  know  she  could  — 
She  can  have  marriage,  if  she  wants  to  marry. 
Unless  she  runs  to  men  already  married, 
And  if  she  does  so,  don't  you  make  her  out 
As  loose  and  bad  ? 

Well,  what  is  more  to  tell? 
She   learned   French,   seemed   to   know   the  ways   of   the 

world, 

Knew  books,  knew  how  to  dress,  gave  evidence 
Of  contact  with  refinements ;  letters  came 
When  she  was  here  at  intervals  inscribed 

[33] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

In  writing  of  elite  ones,  gifted  maybe. 

And  she  was  filial  and  kind  to  me, 

Most  kind  toward  her  mother,  gave  us  things 

At  Christmas  time.     But  still  her  way  was  such 

That  I  as  well  had  been  familiar  with  her 

As  with  some  formal  lady  visiting. 

She  came  back  here  before  she  went  to  France, 

Staid  two  days  with  us.     Once  upon  the  porch 

She  turned  to  me  and  said :  "  I  wish  to  honor 

Mother  and  you  by  serving  in  the  war. 

You  must  rejoice  that  I  can  serve  —  you  must! 

But  most  I  wish  to  honor  America, 

This  land  of  promise,  of  fulfillment,  too, 

Which  proves  to  all  the  world  that  men  and  women 

Are  born  alike  of  God,  at  least  that  riches 

And  classes  formed  in  pride  have  neither  hearts, 

Nor  minds  above  the  souls  of  those  who  work. 

This  land  that  reared  me  is  my  dearest  love, 

I  go  to  serve  the  country/' 

Pardon  me ! 

A  man  of  my  age  in  an  hour  like  this 
Must  cry  a  little  —  wait  till  I  can  say 
The  last  words  that  she  said  to  me. 

She  put 

Her  arms  about  me,  then  she  said  to  me : 
"I  am  so  glad  my  life  and  place  in  life 
Were  such  that  I  was  forced  to  rise  or  sink, 
To  strive  or  fail.     God  has  been  good  to  me, 

[34] 


HENRY  MURRAY 

Who  gifted  me  with  spirit  to  aspire." 
I  go  back  to  my  store  now.     In  these  days, 
Last  days,  of  course,  I  try  to  be  a  husband, 
Try  to  be  kinder  to  the  mother  of  Elenor. 
Death  is  not  far  off,  and  that  makes  us  think. 
We  may  be  over  soft  or  penitent; 
Forgive  where  we  should  hate  still,  being  soft; 
And  fade  off  from  the  wrongs,  we  brooded  on; 
And  cease  to  care  life  has  been  badly  lived, 
From  first  to  last.     But  none  the  less  our  vision 
Seems  clearer  as  we  end  this  trivial  life. 
And  so  I  try  to  be  a  kinder  husband 
To  Elenor's  mother. 

So  spoke  Henry  Murray 
To  Merival;  a  stenographer  took  down 
His  words,  and  they  were  written  out  and  shown 
The  jury.     Afterward  the  mother  came 
And  told  her  story  to  the  coroner, 
Also  reported,  written  out,  and  shown 
The  jury.     But  it  happened  thus  with  her: 
She  waited  in  the  coroner's  outer  room 
Until  her  husband  told  his  story,  then 
With  eyes  upon  the  floor,  passing  her  husband, 
The  two  in  silence  passing,  as  he  left 
The  coroner's  office,  spoke  amid  her  sighs, 
Her  breath  long  drawn  at  intervals,  looking  down 
The  while  she  spoke: 


[35] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 


MRS.  MURRAY 

I  think,  she  said  at  first, 
My  daughter  did  not  kill  herself.     I'm  sure 
Someone  did  violence  to  her,  your  tests, 
Examination  will  prove  violence. 
It  would  be  like  her  fate  to  meet  with  such : 
Poor  child,  unfortunate  from  birth,  at  least 
Unfortunate  in  fortune,  peace  and  joy. 
Or  else  if  she  met  with  no  violence, 
Some  sudden  crisis  of  her  woman's  heart 
Came  on  her  by  the  river,  the  result 
Of  strains  and  labors  in  the  war  in  France. 
I'll  tell  you  why  I  say  this:  First  I  knew 
She  had  come  near  me  from  New  York,  there  came 
A  letter  from  her,  saying  she  had  come 
To  visit  with  her  aunt  there  near  LeRoy, 
And  rest  and  get  the  country  air.     She  said 
To  keep  it  secret,  not  to  tell  her  father  ; 
That  she  was  in  no  frame  of  mind  to  come 
And  be  with  us,  and  see  her  father,  see 
Our  life,  which  is  the  same  as  it  was  when 
She  was  a  child  and  after.     But  she  said 
To  come  to  her.     And  so  the  day  before 
They  found  her  by  the  river  I  went  over 
And  saw  her  for  the  day.     She  seemed  most  gay, 
Gave  me  the  presents  which  she  brought  from  France, 
Told  me  of  many  things,  but  rather  more 
By  way  of  half  told  things  than  something  told 

[36] 


MRS.  MURRAY 

Continuously,  you  know.     She  had  grown  fairer, 

She  had  a  majesty  of  countenance, 

A  luminous  glory  shone  about  her  face, 

Her  voice  was  softer,  eyes  looked  tenderer. 

She  held  my  hands  so  lovingly  when  we  met. 

She  kissed  me  with  such  silent,  speaking  love. 

But  then  she  laughed  and  told  me  funny  stories. 

She  seemed  all  hope,  and  said  she'd  rest  awhile 

Before  she  made  a  plan  for  life  again. 

And  when  we  parted,  she  said :  "  Mother,  think 

What  trip  you'd  like  to  take.     I've  saved  some  money, 

And  you  must  have  a  trip,  a  rest,  construct 

Yourself  anew  for  life."     So,  as  I  said, 

She  came  to  death  by  violence,  or  else 

She  had  some  weakness  that  she  hid  from  me 

Which  came  upon  her  quickly. 

For  the  rest, 

Suppose  I  told  you  all  my  life,  and  told 
What  was  my  waste  in  life  and  what  in  hers, 
How  I  have  lived,  and  how  poor  Elenor 
Was  raised  or  half-raised  —  what's  the  good  of  that? 
Are  not  there  rooms  of  books,  of  tales  and  poems 
And  histories  to  show  all  secrets  of  life? 
Does  anyone  live  now,  or  learn  a  thing 
Not  lived  and  learned  a  thousand  times  before? 
The  trouble  is  these  secrets  are  locked  up 
In  books  and  might  as  well  be  locked  in  graves, 
Since  they  mean  nothing  till  you  live  yourself. 
And  I  suppose  the  race  will  live  and  suffer 

[37] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

As  long  as  leaves  put  forth  in  spring,  live  over 
The  very  sorrows,  horrors  that  we  live. 
Wisdom  is  here,  but  how  to  learn  that  wisdom, 
And  use  it  while  life's  worth  the  living,  that's 
The  thing  to  be  desired.     But  let  it  go. 
If  any  soul  can  profit  by  my  life, 
Or  by  my  Elenor's,  I  trust  he  may, 
And  help  him  to  it. 

Coroner  Merival, 

Even  the  children  in  this  neighborhood 
Know  something  of  my  husband  and  of  me, 
Our  struggle  and  unhappiness,  even  the  children 
Hear  Alma  Bell's  name  mentioned  with  a  look. 
And  if  you  went  about  here  to  inquire 
About  my  Elenor,  you'd  find  them  saying 
She  was  a  wonder  girl,  or  this  or  that. 
But  then  you'd  feel  a  closing  up  of  speech, 
As  if  a  door  closed  softly,  just  a  way 
To  indicate  that  something  else  was  there, 
Somewhere  in  the  person's  room  of  thoughts. 
This  is  the  truth,  since  I  was  told  a  man 
Came  here  to  ask  about  her,  when  she  asked 
To  serve  in  France,  the  matter  of  Alma  Bell 
Traced  down  and  probed. 

It  being  true,  therefore, 
That  you  and  all  the  rest  know  of  my  life, 
Our  life  at  home,  it  matters  nothing  then 
That  I  go  on  and  tell  you  what  I  think 

[38] 


MRS.  MURRAY 

Made  sorrow  for  us,  what  our  waste  was,  tell  you 
How  the  yarn  knotted  as  we  took  the  skein 
And  wound  it  to'a  ball,  and  made  the  ball 
So  hardly  knotted  that  the  yarn  held  fast 
Would  not  unwind  for  knitting. 

Well,  you  know 

My  father  Arthur  Fouche,  my  mother  too. 
They  reared  me  with  the  greatest»care.      You  know 
They  sent  me  to  St.  Mary's,  where  I  learned 
Fine  things,  to  be  a  lady  —  learned  to  dance, 
To  play  on  the  piano,  sing  a  little; 
Learned  French,  Italian,  learned  to  know  good  books, 
The  beauty  of  a  poem  or  a  tale ; 
Learned  elegance  of  manners,  how  to  walk, 
Stand,  breathe,  keep  well,  be  radiant  and  strong, 
And  so  in  all  to  make  life  beautiful, 
Become  the  helpful  wife  of  some  strong  man, 
The  mother  of  fine  children.     Well,  at  school 
We  girls  were  guarded  from  the  men,  and  so 
We  went  to  town  surrounded  by  our  teachers, 
And  only  saw  the  boys  when  some  girl's  brother 
Came  to  the  school  to  visit,  perhaps  a  girl 
Consent  had  of  her  parents  to  receive 
A  beau  sometimes.     But  then  I  had  no  beau  ; 
And  had  I  had  my  father  would  have  kept  him 
Away   from   me   at   school. 

For  truth  to  tell 
When  I  had  finished  school,  came  back  to  home 

[39] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

They  kept  the  men  away,  there  was  no  man 
Quite  good  enough  to  call.     Now  here  begins 
My  fate,  as  you  will  see;  their  very  care 
To  make  me  what  they  wished,  to  have  my  life 
Grow  safely,  prosperously,  was  my  undoing. 
I  had  a  sister  named  Corinne  who  suffered 
Because  of  that;  my  father  guarded  me 
Against  all  strolling  lovers,  unknown  men. 
But  here  was  Henry  Murray,  whom  they  knew, 
And  trusted  too ;  and  though  they  never  dreamed 
I'd  marry  him,  they  trusted  him  to  call. 
He  seemed  a  quiet,  diligent  young  man, 
Aspiring  in  the  world.     And  so  they  thought 
They'd  solve  my  loneliness  and  restless  spirits 
By  opening  the  door  to  him.     My  fate! 
They  let  him  call  upon  me  twice  a  month. 
He  was  in  love  with  me  before  this  started, 
That's  why  he  tried  to  call.     But  as  for  me, 
He  was  a  man,  that's  all,  a  being  only 
In  the  world  to  talk  to,  help  my  loneliness. 
I  had  no  love  for  him,  no  more  than  I 
Had  love  for  father's  tenant  on  the  farm. 
And  what  I  knew  of  marriage,  what  it  means 
Was  what  a  child  knows.     If  you'll  credit  me 
I  thought  a  man  and  woman  slept  together, 
Lay  side  by  side,  and  somehow,  I  don't  know, 
That  children  came. 

But  then  I  was  so  vital, 
Rebellious,  hungering  for  freedom,  that 

[40] 


MRS.  MURRAY 

No  chance  was  too  indifferent  to  put  by 

What  offered  freedom  from  the  prison  home, 

The  watchfulness  of  father  and  of  mother, 

The  rigor  of  my  discipline.     And  in  truth 

No  other  man  came  by,  no  prospect  showed 

Of  going  on  a  visit,  finding  life 

Some  other  place.     And  so  it  came  about, 

After  I  knew  this  man  two  months,  one  night 

1  made  a  rope  of  sheets,  down  from  my  window 

Descended  to  his  arms,  eloped  in  short, 

And  married  Henry  Murray,  and  found  out 

What  marriage  is,  believe  me.     Well,  I  think 

The  time  will  come  when  marriage  will  be  known 

Before  the  parties  tie  themselves  for  life, 

How  do  you  know  a  man,  or  know  a  woman 

Until  the  flesh  instructs  you?     Do  you  know 

A  man  until  you  see  him  face  to  face? 

Or  know  what  texture  is  his  hand  until 

You  touch  his  hand?     Well,  lastly  no  one  knows 

Whether  a  man  is  mate  for  you  before 

You  mate  with  him.     I  hope  to  see  the  day 

When  men  and  women,  to  try  out  their  souls 

Will  live  together,  learning  A.  B.  C.'s 

Of  life  before  they  write  their  fates  for  life. 

Our  story  started   then.     To  sate  their  rage 
My  father  and  my  mother  cut  me  off, 
And  so  we  had  bread  problems  from  the  first. 
He  made  but  little  clerking  in  the  store, 
Besides  his  mind  was  on  the  law  and  books. 

[41] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

These  were  the  early  tangles  of  our  yarn. 

And  I  grew  worried  as  the  children  came, 

Two  sons  at  first,  and  I  was  far  from  well, 

One  died  at  five  years,  and  I  almost  died 

For  grief  at  this.     But  down  below  all  things, 

Far  down  below  all  tune  or  scheme  of  sound, 

Where  no  rests  were,  but  only  ceaseless  dirge, 

Was  my  heart's  de  profundis,  crying  out 

My  thirst  for  love,  not  thirst  for  his,  but  thirst 

For  love  that  quenched  it.     But  the  only  water 

That  passed  my  lips  was  desert  water,  poisoned 

By  arsenic  from  his  rocks.     My  soul  grew  bitter, 

Then  sweetened  under  the  cross,  grew  bitter  again. 

My  life  lay  raving  on  the  desert  sands. 

To  speak  more  plainly,  sleep  deserted  me. 

I  could  not  sleep  for  thought,  and  for  a  will 

That  could  not  bend,  but  hoped  that  death  or  something 

Would  take  him  from  me,  bring  me  love  before 

My  face  was  withered,  as  it  is  to-day. 

At  last  the  doctor  found  me  growing  mad 

For  lack  of  sleep.     Why  was  I  so,  he  asked. 

You  must  give  up  this  psychic  work  and  quit 

This  psychic  writing,  let  the  spirits  go. 

Well,  it  was  true  that  years  before  I  found 

I  heard  and  saw  with  higher  power,  received 

Deep  messages  from  spirits,  from  my  boy 

Who  passed  away.     And  as  to  this,  who  knows?  — 

Surely   no  doctor  —  of   this   psychic  power. 

You  may  be  called  neurotic,  what  is  that? 

Perhaps  it  is  the  soul  become  so  fine 

[42] 


MRS.  MURRAY 

It  leaves  the  body,  or  shakes  down  the  body 

With  energy  too  subtle  for  the  body. 

But  I  was  sleepless  for  these  years,  at  last 

The  secret  lost  of  sleep,  for  seven  days 

And  seven  nights  could  find  no  sleep,  until 

I  lay  upon  the  lawn  and  pushed  my  head, 

As  a  dog  does  around,  around,  around. 

There  was  a  devil  in  me,  at  one  with  me, 

And  neither  to  be  put  out,  nor  yet  subdued 

By  help  outside,  and  nothing  to  be  done 

Except  to  find  escape  by  knife,  or  pistol, 

And  thus  get  sleep.     Escape!     Oh,  that's  the  word! 

There's  something  in  the  soul  that  says  escape ! 

Fly,  fly  from  something,  and  in  truth,  my  friend, 

Life's  restlessness,  however  healthful  it  be, 

Is  motived  by  this  urge  to  fly,  escape: 

Well,  to  go  on,  they  gave  me  everything, 

At  last  they  gave  me  chloral,  but  no  sleep! 

And  finally  I  closed  my  eyes  and  quick 

The  secret  came  to  me,  as  one  might  find, 

After  forgetting  how,  to  swim,  or  walk, 

After  a  sickness,  and  for  just  two  minutes 

I  slept,  and  then  I  got  the  secret  back, 

And  later  slept. 

So  I  possessed  myself. 

But  for  these  years  sleep  but  two  hours  or  so. 
Why  do  I  wake?     The  spirits  let  me  sleep. 
Oh,  no  it  is  my  longing  that  will  rest  not, 
These  thoughts  of  him  that  rest  not,  and  this  love 
That  never  has  been  satisfied,  this  heart 

[43] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

So  empty  all  these  years;  the  bitterness 
Of  living  face  to  face  with  one  you  loathe, 
Yet  pity,  while  you  hate  yourself  for  feeling 
Such  bitterness  toward  another  soul, 
As  wretched  as  your  own.     But  then  as  well 
I  could  not  sleep  for  Elenor,  for  her  fate, 
Never  to  have  a  chance  in  life.     I  saw 
Our  poverty  made  surer;  year  by  year 
Slip  by  with  chances  slipping. 

Oh,  that  child! 

When  I  first  felt  her  lips  that  sucked  my  breasts 
My  heart  went  muffled  like  a  bird  that  tries 
To  pour  its  whole  song  in  one  note  and  fails 
Out  of  its  very  ecstasy.     A  daughter, 
A  little  daughter  at  my  breast,  a  soul 
Of  a  woman  to  be!     I  knew  her  spirit  then, 
Felt  all  my  love  and  longing  in  her  lips, 
Felt  all  my  passion,  purity  of  desire 

In  those  sweet  lips  that  sucked  my  breasts.     Oh,  rapture, 
Oh  highest  rapture  God  had  given  me 
To  see  her  roll  upon  my  arm  and  smile, 
Full  fed,  the  milk  that  gurgled  from  her  lips! 
Such  blue  eyes  —  oh,  my  child !     My  child !  my  child ! 
I  have  no  hope  now  of  this  life  —  no  hope 
Except  to  take  you  to  my  breast  again. 
God  will  be  good  and  give  you  to  me,  or 
God  will  bring  sleep  to  me,  a  sleep  so  still 
I  shall  not  miss  you,  Elenor. 

[44] 


MRS.  MURRAY 

I   go  on. 

I  see  her  when  she  first  began  to  walk. 
She  ran  at  first,  just  like  a  baby  quail. 
She  never  walked.     She  danced  into  this  life. 
She  used  to  dance  for  minutes  on  her  toes. 
My  starved  heart  bore  her  vital  in  some  way. 
My  hope  which  would  not  die  had  made  her  gay, 
And  unafraid  and  venturesome  and  hopeful. 
She  did  not  know  what  sadness  was,  or  fear, 
Or  anything  but  laughter,  play  and  fun. 
Not  till  she  grew  to  ten  years  and  could  see 
The  place  in  life  that  God  had  given  her 
Between  my  life  and  his;  and  then  I  saw 
A  thoughtfulness  come  over  her,  as  a  cloud 
Passes  across  the  sun,  and  makes  one  place 
A  shadow  while  the  landscape  lies  in  light: 
So  quietness  would  come  over  her,  with  smiles 
Around  her  quietness  and  sunniest  laughter 
Fast  following  on  her  quietness. 

Well,  you  know 

She  went  to  school  here  as  the  others  did. 
But  who  knew  that  I  grieved  to  see  her  lose 
A  schooling  at  St.  Mary's,  have  no  chance? 
No  chance  save  what  she  earned  herself  ?     What  girl 
Has  earned  the  money  for  two  years  in  college 
Beside  my  Elenor  in  this  neighborhood? 
There  is  not  one!     But  then  if  books  and  schooling 
Be  things  prerequisite  for  success  in  life, 
Why  should  we  have  a  social  scheme  that  clings 

[45] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

To  marriage  and  the  home,  when  such  a  soul 

Is  turned  into  the  world  from  such  a  home, 

With  schooling  so  inadequate?     If  the  state 

May  take  our  sons  and  daughters  for  its  use 

In  war,  in  peace,  why  let  the  state  raise  up 

And  school  these  sons  and  daughters,  let  the  home 

Go  to  full  ruin  from  half  ruin  now, 

And  let  us  who  have  failed  in  choosing  mates 

Re-choose,  without  that  fear  of  children's  fate 

Which  haunts  us  now. 

For  look  at  Elenor! 
Why  did   she  never  marry?     Any  man 
Had  made  his  life  rich  had  he  married  her. 
But  in  this  present  scheme  of  things  such  women 
Move  in  a  life  where  men  are  mostly  less 
In  mind  and  heart  than  they  are  —  and  the  men 
Who  are  their  equals  never  come  to  them, 
Or  come  to  them  too  seldom,  or  if  they  come 
Are  blind  and  do  not  know  these  Elenors. 
And  she  had  character  enough  to  live 
In  single  life,  refuse  the  lesser  chance, 
Since  she  found  not  the  great  one,  as  I  think. 
But  let  it  pass  —  I'm  sure  she  was  beloved, 
And  more  than  once,  I'm  sure.     But  I  am  sure 
She  was  too  wise  for  errors  crude  and  common. 
And  if  she  had  a  love  that  stopped  her  heart, 
She  knew  beforehand  all,  and  met  her  fate 
Bravely,  and  wrote  that  "  To  be  brave  and  not 
To  flinch,"  to  keep  before  her  soul  her  faith 

[46] 


MRS.  MURRAY 

Deep  down  within  it,  lest  she  might  forget  it 
Among  her  crowded  thoughts. 

She  went  to  the  war. 

She  came  to  see  me  before  she  went,  and  said 
She  owed  her  courage  and  her  restless  spirit 
To  me,  her  will  to  live,  her  love  of  life, 
Her  power  to  sacrifice  and  serve,  to  me. 
She  put  her  arms  about  my  neck  and  kissed  me, 
Said  I  had  been  a  mother  to  her,  being 
A  mother  if  no  more;  wished  she  had  brought 
More  happiness  to  me,  material  things, 
Delight  in  life. 

Of  course  her  work  took  strength. 
Her  life  was  sapped  by  service  in  the  war, 
She  died  for  country,  for  America, 
As  much  as  any  soldier.     So  I  say 
If  her  life  came  to  any  waste,  what  waste 
May  her  heroic  life  and  death  prevent? 
The  world  has  spent  two  hundred  billion  dollars 
To  put  an  egotist  and  strutting  despot 
Out  of  the  power  he  used  to  tyrannize 
Over  his  people  with  a  tyranny 
Political  in  chief,  to  take  away 
The  glittering  dominion  of  a  crown. 
I  want  some  good  to  us  out  of  this  war, 
And  some  emancipation.     Let  me  tell  you: 
I  know  a  worse  thing  than  a  German  king: 
It  is  the  social  scourge  of  poverty, 

[47] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Which  cripples,  slays  the  husband  and  the  wife, 

And  sends  the  children  forth  in  life  half  formed. 

I  know  a  tyrann/  more  insidious 

Than  any  William  had,  it  is  the  tyranny 

Of  superstition,  customs,  laws  and  rules; 

The  tyranny  of  the  church,  the  tyranny 

Of  marriage,  and  the  tyranny  of  beliefs 

Concerning  right  and  wrong,  of  good  and  evil ; 

The  tyranny  of  taboos,  the  despotism 

That  rules  our  spirits  with  commands  and  threats: 

Ghosts  of  dead  faiths  and  creeds,  ghosts  of  the  past. 

The  tyranny,  in  short,  that  starves  and  chains 

Imprisons,  scourges,  crucifies  the  soul, 

Which  only  asks  the  chance  to  live  and  love, 

Freely  as  it  wishes,  which  will  live  so 

If  you  take  Poverty  and  chuck  him  out. 

Then  make  the  main  thing  inner  growth,  take  rules, 

Conventions  and  religion  (save  it  be 

The  worship  of  God  in  spirit  without  hands 

And  without  temples  sacraments)  the  babble 

Of  moralists,  the  rant  and  flummery 

Of  preachers  and  of  priests,  and  chuck  them  out. 

These  things  produce  your  waste  and  suffering. 

You  tell  a  soul  it  sins  and  make  it  suffer, 

Spend  years  in  impotence  and  twilight  thought. 

You  punish  where  no  punishment  should  be, 

Weaken  and  break  the  soul.     You  weight  the  soul 

With  idols  and  with  symbols  meaningless, 

When  God  gave  but  three  things:  the  earth  and  air 

And  mind  to  know  them,  live  in  freedom  by  them. 

[48] 


MRS.  MURRAY 

Well,  I  would  have  America  become 

As  free  as  any  soul  has  ever  dreamed  her, 

And  if  America  does  not  get  strength 

To  free  herself,  now  that  the  war  is  over, 

Then  Elenor  Murray's  spirit  has  not  won 

The  thing  she  died  for. 

So  I  go  my  way, 

Back  to  get  supper,  I  who  live,  shall  die 
In  America  as  it  is  —  Rise  up  and  change  it 
For  mothers  of  the  future  Elenors. 

By  now  the  press  was  full  of  Elenor  Murray. 

And  far  and  near,  wherever  she  was  known, 

Had  lived,  or  taught,  or  studied,  tongues  were  loosed 

In  episodes  or  stories  of  the  girl. 

The  coroner  on  the  street  was  button-holed, 

Received  marked  articles  and  letters,  some 

Anonymous,  some  crazy.     David  Borrow 

Who  helped  this  Alma  Bell  as  lawyer,  friend, 

Found  in  his  mail  a  note  from  Alma  Bell, 

Enclosed  with  one  much  longer,  written  for 

The  coroner  to  read. 

When  Merival 

Had  read  it,  then  he  said  to  Borrow:     "  Read 
This  letter  to  the  other  jurors."     So 
He  read  it  to  them,  as  they  sat  one  night, 
Invited  to  the  home  of  Merival 
To  drink  a  little  wine  and  have  a  smoke, 
And  talk  about  the  case. 

[49] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 


ALMA  BELL  TO  THE  CORONER 

What  my  name  is,  or  where  I  live,  or  if 

I  am  that  Alma  Bell  whose  name  is  broached 

With  Elenor  Murray's  who  shall  know  from  this? 

My  hand-writing  I  hide  in  type,  I  send 

This  letter  through  a  friend  who  will  not  tell. 

But  first,  since  no  chance  ever  yet  was  mine 

To  speak  my  heart  out,  since  if  I  had  tried 

These  fifteen  years  ago  to  tell  my  heart, 

I  must  have  failed  for  lack  of  words  and  mind, 

I  speak  my  heart  out  now.     I  knew  the  soul 

Of  Elenor  Murray,  knew  it  at  the  time, 

Have  verified  my  knowledge  in  these  years, 

Who  have  not  lost  her,  have  kept  touch  with  her 

In  letters,  know  the  splendid  sacrifice 

She  made  in  the  war.     She  was  a  human  soul 

Earth  is  not  blest  with  often. 

First  I  say 

I  knew  her  when  she  first  came  to  my  class 
Turned  seventeen  just  then  —  such  blue-bell  eyes, 
And  such  a  cataract  of  dark  brown  hair, 
And  such  a  brow,  sweet  lips,  and  such  a  way 
Of  talking  with  a  cunning  gasp,  as  if 
To  catch  breath  for  the  words.     And  such  a  sense 
Of  fitness,  beauty,  delicacy.     But  more 
Such  vital  power  that  shook  her  silver  nerves, 
And  made  her  dim  to  others;  but  to  me 

[50] 


ALMA  BELL  TO  THE  CORONER 

She  was  all  sanity  of  soul,  her  body, 

The  instruments  of  life,  were  overborne 

By  that  great  flame  of  hers.     And  if  her  music 

Fell  sometimes  into  discord,  which  I  doubt, 

It  was  her  heart-strings  which  could  not  vibrate 

For  human  weakness,  what  the  soul  of  her 

Struck  for  response;  and  when  the  strings  so  failed 

She  was  more  grieved  than  I,  or  anyone, 

Who  listened  and  expected  more. 

Well,    then 

What  was  my  love?     I  am  not  loath  to  tell. 
I  could  not  touch  her  hand  without  a  thrill, 
Nor  kiss  her  lips  but  I  felt  purified, 
Exalted  in  some  way.     And  if  fatigue, 
The  hopeless,  daily  ills  of  teaching  brought 
My  spirit  to  distress,  and  if  I  went, 
As  oftentimes  I  did,  to  call  upon  her 
After  the  school  hours,  as  I  heard  her  step 
Responding  to  my  knock,  my  heart  went  up, 
Her  face  framed  by  the  opened  door  —  what  peace 
Was  mine  to  see  it,  peace  inerrable 
And  rest  were  mine  to  sit  with  her  and  hear 
That  voice  of  hers  where  breath  was  caught  for  words, 
That  cunning  gasp  and  pause ! 

I  loved  her  then, 

Have  loved  her  always,  love  her  now  no  less. 
I  feel  her  spirit  somehow,  can  take  out 
Her  letters,  photograph,  and  find  a  joy 

[51] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

That  such  a  soul  lived,  was  in  truth  my  soul, 
Must  always  be  my  soul. 

What  was  this  love? 
Why  only  this,  shame  nature  if  you  will: 
But  since  man's  body  is  not  man's  alone, 
Nor  woman's  body  wholly  feminine, 
A  biologic  truth,  our  body's  souls 
Are  neither  masculine  nor  feminine, 
But  part  and  part ;  from  whence  our  souls  play  forth 
Part  masculine,  part  feminine  —  this  woman 
Had  that  of  body  first  which  made  her  soul, 
Or  made  her  soul  play  in  its  way,  and  I 
Had  that  of  body  which  made  soul  of  me 
Play  in  its  way.     Our  music  met,  that's  all, 
And  harmonized.     The  flesh's  explanation 
Is  not  important,  nor  to  tell  whence  comes 
A  love  in  the  heart  —  the  thing  is  love  at  last: 
Love  which  unites  and  comforts,  glorifies, 
Enlarges  spirit,  woos  to  generous  life, 
Invites  to  sacrifice,  to  service,  clothes 
This  poor  dull  earth  with  glory,  makes  the  dawn 
An  hour  of  high  resolve,  the  night  a  hope 
For  dawn  for  fuller  life,  the  day  a  time 
For  working  out  the  soul  in  terms  of  love. 
This  was  my  love  for  Elenor  Murray  —  this 
Her  love  for  me,  I  think.     Her  sacrifice 
In  the  war  I  traced  to  our  love  —  all  the  good 
Her  life  set  into  being,  into  motion 
Has  in  it  something  of  this  love  of  ours. 

[52] 


ALMA  BELL  TO  THE  CORONER 

How  good  is  God  who  gives  us  love,  the  lens 
Through  which  we  see  the  beauty,  hid  from  eyes 
That  have  no  love,  no  lens. 

Then  what  are  spirits? 
Effluvia  material  of  our  bodies? 
Or  is  the  spirit  all  —  the  body  nothing, 
Since  every  atom,  particle  of  matter 
With  its  interstices  of  soul,  divides 
Until  there  is  no  matter,  only  soul? 
But  what  is  love  but  of  the  soul  —  what  flesh 
Knows  love  but  through  the  soul  ?     May  it  not  be 
As  soul  learns  love  through  flesh,  it  may  at  last, 
Helped  on  its  way  by  flesh,  discard  the  flesh : — 
As  cured  men  leave  their  crutches  —  and  go  on 
Loving  with  spirits.     For  it  seems  to  me 
I  must  find  Elenor  Murray  as  a  spirit, 
Myself  a  spirit,  love  her  as  I  loved  her 
These  years  on  earth,  but  with  a  clearer  fire, 
Flame  that  is  separate  from  fuel,  burning 
Eternal  through  itself. 

And  here  a  word: 

My  love  for  Elenor  Murray  never  had 
Other  expression  than  the  look  of"  eyes, 
The  spiritual  thrill  of  listening  to  her  voice, 
A  hand  clasp,  kiss  upon  the  lips  at  best, 
Better  to  find  her  soul,  as  Plato  says. 

Too  true  I  left  LeRoy  under  a  cloud, 
Because  of  love  for  Elenor  Murray  —  yet 

[53] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Not  lawless  love,  I  write  now  to  make  clear 
What  love  was  mine  —  and  you  must  understand. 
But  let  me  tell  how  life  has  dealt  with  me, 
Then  judge  my  purpose,  dream,  the  quality 
Of  Elenor  Murray  judge,  who  in  some  way, 
Somehow  has  drawn  me  onward,  upward  too, 
I  hope,  as  I  have  striven. 

I  did  fear 

Her  safety,  and  her  future,  did  reprove 
Her  conduct,  its  appearance,  rather  more 
In  dread  of  gossip,  dread  of  ways  to  follow 
From  such  free  ways  begun  at  seventeen, 
In  innocence,  out  of  a  vital  heart. 
But  when  a  bud  is  opening  what  stray  bees 
Come  to  drag  pollen  over  it,  and  set 
Life  going  to  the  end  in  the  fruit  of  life! 
O,  my  wish  was  to  keep  her  for  some  love 
To  ripen  in  a  rich  maturity. 
My  care  proved  useless  —  or  shall  I  say  so? 
Or  anyone  say  so?  since  no  mind  knows 
What  failure  here  may  somewhere  prove  a  gain. 

There  was  that  man  who  came  into  her  life 
With  heart  unsatisfied,  bound  to  a  woman 
He  wedded  early.     Elenor  Murray's  love 
Destroyed  this  man  by  human  measurements. 
And  he  destroyed  her,  so  they  say.     But  yet 
She  poured  her  love  upon  him,  lit  her  soul 
With  brighter  flames  for  love  of  him.     At  last 

[54] 


ALMA  BELL  TO  THE  CORONER 

She  knew  no  thing  but  love  and  sacrifice. 

She  wrote  me  last  her  life  was  just  one  pain, 

Had  always  been  so  from  the  first,  and  now 

She  wished  to  fling  her  spirit  in  the  war, 

Give,  serve,  nor  count  the  cost,  win  death  and  God 

In  service  in  the  war  —  O,  loveliest  soul 

I  pray  and  pray  to  meet  you  once  again ! 

So  was  her  life  a  ruin,  was  it  waste? 

She  was  a  prodigal  flower  that  never  shut 

Its  petals,  even  in  darkness,  let  her  soul 

Escape  when,  where  it  would. 

But  to  myself: 

I  dragged  myself  to  England  from  LeRoy 
And  plunged  in  life,  philosophies  of  life, 
Spinoza  and  what  not,  read  poetry, 
Heard  music  too,  Tschaikowsky,  Wagner,  all 
Who  tried  to  make  sound  tell  the  secret  thing 
That  drove  me  wild  in  searching  love.     And  lovers 
I  had  one  after  the  other,  having  fallen 
To  that  belief  the  way  is  by  the  body. 
But  I  was  fooled  and  grew  by  slow  degrees. 
And  then  there  came  a  wild  man  in  my  life, 
A  vagabond,  a  madman,  genius  —  well, 
We  both  went  mad,  and  I  smashed  everything, 
And  ran  away,  threw  all  the  world  for  him, 
Only  to  find  myself  worn  out,  half  dead 
At  last,  as  it  were  out  of  delirium. 
And  for  four  years  sat  by  the  sea,  or  made 
Visits  to  Paris,  where  I  met  the  man 

[55] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

I  married.     Then  how  strange !  I  gave  myself 

Wholly  to  bearing  children,  just  to  find 

Some  explanation  of  myself,  some  work 

Wholly  absorbing,  lives  to  take  my  love. 

And  here  I  was  instructed,  found  a  step 

For  my  poor  feet  to  mount  by.     Though  submerged, 

Alone  too  much,  my  husband  not  the  mate 

I  dreamed  of,  hearing  echoes  in  my  dreams 

Of  London  and  of  Paris,  sometimes  voices 

Of  lovers  lost  and  vanished ;  still  I've  found 

A  peace  sometimes,  a  stay,  too,  in  the  innocence 

And  helplessness  of  children. 

But  you  see, 

In  spite  of  all  we  do,  however  high 
And  fiercely  mounts  desire,  life  imposes 
Repression,  sacrifice,  renunciation. 
And  our  poor  souls  fall  muddied  in  the  ditch, 
Or  take  the  discipline  and  live  life  out. 
So  Elenor  Murray  lived  and  did  not  fail. 
And  so  it  was  the  knowledge  of  her  life 
Kept  me  in  spite  of  failures  at  the  task 
Of  holding  to  my  self. 

These  two  months  passed 
I  found  I  had  not  killed  desire  —  found 
Among  a  group  a  chance  to  try  again 
For  happiness,  but  knew  it  was  not  there. 
Then  to  my  children  I  came  back  and  said: 
"  Free  once  again  through  suffering."     So  I  prayed: 

[56] 


ALMA  BELL  TO  THE  CORONER 

"  Come  to  me  flame  of  spirit,  fire  of  worship, 

Bright  fire  of  song;  if  I  but  be  myself, 

Work  through  my  fate,  you  shall  be  mine  at  last."  . 

Then  was  it  that  I  heard  from  Elenor  Murray  — 

Such  letters,  such  outpourings  of  herself! 

Poor  woman  leaving  love  that  could  not  be 

More  than  it  was;  how  wise  she  was  to  fly, 

And  use  that  love  for  service,  as  she  did ; 

Extract  its  purest  essence  for  the  war, 

And  ease  death  with  it,  merging  love  and  death 

Into  that  mystic  union,  seen  at  last 

By  Elenor  Murray. 

When  I  heard  she  came 
All  broken  from  the  war,  and  died  somehow 
There  by  the  river,  then  she  seemed  to  me 
More  near  —  I  seemed  to  feel  her;  little  zephyrs 
Blowing  about  my  face,  when  I  sat  looking 
Over  the  sea  in  my  rose  bower,  seemed 
The  exhalation  of  her  soul  that  caught 
Its  breath  for  words.     I  see  her  in  my  dreams  — 
O,  my  pure  soul,  what  have  you  been  to  me, 
What  must  you  be  hereafter! 

But    my    friend, 

And  I  must  call  you  friend,  whose  strength  in  life 
Drives  you  to  find  economies  of  spirit, 
And  save  the  waste  of  spirit,  you  must  find 
Whatever  waste  there  was  of  Elenor  Murray 
Of  love  or  faith,  or  time,  or  strength,  great  gain 

[57] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

In  spite  of  early  chances,  father,  mother, 

Too   loveless,    negligent,   or    ignorant; 

Her  mother  instinct  never  blessed  with  children. 

I  sometimes  think  no  life  is  without  use  — 

For  even  weeds  that  sow  themselves,  frost  reaped 

And  matted  on  the  ground,  enrich  the  soil, 

Or  feed  some  life.     Our  eyes  must  see  the  end 

Of  what  these  growths  are  for,  before  we  say 

Where  waste  is  and  where  gain. 


Coroner  Merival  woke  to  scan  the  Times, 

And  read  the  story  of  the  suicide 

Of  Gregory  Wenner,  circle  big  enough 

From  Elenor  Murray's  death,  but  unobserved 

Of  Merival,  until  he  heard  the  hint 

Of  Dr.  Trace,  who  made  the  autopsy, 

That  Gregory  Wenner  might  have  caused  the  death 

Of  Eleanor  Murray,  or  at  least  was  near 

When  Elenor  Murray  died.     Here  is  the  story 

Worked  out  by  Merival  as  he  went  about 

Unearthing  secrets,  asking  here  and  there 

What  Gregory  Wenner  was  to  Elenor  Murray. 

The  coroner  had  a  friend  who  was  the  friend 

Of  Mrs.  Wenner.     Acting  on  the  hint 

Of  Dr.  Trace  he  found  this  friend  and  learned 

What  follows  here  of  Gregory  Wenner,  then 

What  Mrs.  Wenner  learned  in  coming  home 

To  bury  Gregory  Wenner.     What  he  learned 

The  coroner  told  the  jury.     Here's  the  life 

Of  Gregory  Wenner  first: 

[58] 


GREGORY  WENNER 


GREGORY  WENNER 

Gregory  Wenner's  brother  married  the  mother 
Of  Alma  Bell,  the  daughter  of  a  marriage 
The  mother  made  before.     Kinship  enough 
To  justify  a  call  on  Wenner's  power 
When  Alma  Bell  was  face  to  face  with  shame. 
And  Gregory  Wenner  went  to  help  the  girl, 
And  for  a  moment  looked  on  Elenor  Murray 
Who  left  the  school-room  passing  through  the  hall, 
A  girl  of  seventeen.     He  left  his  business 
Of  massing  millions  in  the  city,  to  help 
Poor  Alma  Bell,  and  three  years  afterward 
In  the  Garden  of  the  Gods  he  saw  again 
The  face  of  Elenor  Murray  —  what  a  fate 
For  Gregory  Wenner! 

But  when  Alma  Bell 

Wrote  him  for  help  his  mind  was  roiled  with  cares: 
A  money  magnate  had  signed  up  a  loan 
For  half  a  million,  to  which  Wenner  added 
That  much  beside,  earned  since  his  thirtieth  year, 
Now  forty-two,  with  which  to  build  a  block 
Of  sixteen  stories  on  a  piece  of  ground 
Leased  in  the  loop  for  nine  and  ninety  years. 
But  now  a  crabbed  miser,  much  away, 
Following  the  sun,  and  reached  through  agents,  lawyers, 
Owning  the  land  next  to  the  Wenner  land, 
Refused  to  have  the  sixteen  story  wall 

[59] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Adjoin  his  wall,  without  he  might  select 
His  son-in-law  as  architect  to  plan 
The  sixteen-story  block  of  Gregory  Wenner. 
And  Gregory  Wenner  caught  in  such  a  trap, 
The  loan  already  bargained  for  and  bound 
In  a  hard  money  lender's  giant  grasp, 
Consented  to  the  terms,  let  son-in-law 
Make  plans  and  supervise  the  work. 

Five  years 

Go  by  before  the  evil  blossoms  fully;' 
But  here's  the  bud  ^Gregory  Wenner  spent 
His  half-a-million  on  the  building,  also 
Four  hundred  thousand  of  the  promised  loan, 
Made  by  the  money  magnate  —  then  behold 
The  money  magnate  said:  "You  cannot  have 
Another  dollar,  for  the  bonds  you  give 
Are  scarcely  worth  the  sum  delivered  now 
Pursuant   to  the   contract.     I   have   learned 
Your  architect  has  blundered,  in  five  years 
Your  building  will  be  leaning,  soon  enough 
It  will  be  wrecked  by  order  of  the  city." 
And  Gregory  Wenner  found  he  spoke  the  truth. 
But  went  ahead  to  finish  up  the  building, 
And  raked  and  scraped,  fell  back  on  friends  for  loans, 
Mortgaged  his  home  for  money,  just  to  finish 
This  sixteen-story  building,  kept  a  hope 
The  future  would  reclaim  him. 

Gregory  Wenner 
Who  seemed  so  powerful  in  his  place  in  life 

[60] 


GREGORY  WENNER 

Had  all  along  this  cancer  in  his  life: 

He  owned  the  building,  but  he  owed  the  money, 

And  all  the  time  the  building  took  a  slant, 

By  just  a  little  every  year.     And  time 

Made  matters  worse  for  him,  increased  his  foes 

As  he  stood  for  the  city  in  its  warfares 

Against  the  surface  railways,  telephones; 

And  earned  thereby  the  wrath  of  money  lenders, 

Who  made  it  hard  for  him  to  raise  a  loan, 

Who  needed  loans  habitually.     Besides 

He  had  the  trouble  of  an  invalid  wife 

Who  went  from  hospitals  to  sanitariums, 

And  traveled  south,  and  went  in  search  of  health. 

Now  Gregory  Wenner  reaches  forty-five, 
He's  fought  a  mighty  battle,  but  grows  tired. 
The  building  leans  a  little  more  each  year. 
And  money,  as  before,  is  hard  to  get. 
And  yet  he  lives  and  keeps  a  hope. 

At  last 

He  does  not  feel  so  well,  has  dizzy  spells. 
The  doctor  recommends  a  change  of  scene. 
And  Gregory  Wenner  starts  to  see  the  west. 
He  visits  Denver.     Then  upon  a  day 
He  walks  about  the  Garden  of  the  Gods, 
And  sees  a  girl  who  stands  alone  and  looks 
About  the  Garden's  wonders.     Then  he  sees 
The  girl  is  Elenor  Murray,  who  has  grown 
To  twenty-years,  who  looks  that  seventeen 
[61] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

When  first  he  saw  her.     He  remembers  her, 
And  speaks  of  Alma  Bell,  that  Alma  Bell 
Is  kindred  to  him.     Where  is  Alma  Bell, 
He  has  not  heard  about  her  in  these  years? 
And  Elenor  Murray  colors,  and  says:  "  Look, 
There  is  a  white  cloud  on  the  mountain  top." 
And  thus  the  talk  commences.      — * 

Elenor  Murray 

Shows  forth  the  vital  spirit  that  is  hers. 
She  dances  on  her  toes  and  crows  in  wonder, 
Flings  up  her  arms  in  rapture.     What  a  world 
Of  beauty  and  of  hope!     For  not  her  life 
Of  teaching  school,  a  school  of  Czechs  and  Poles 
There  near  LeRoy,  since  she  left  school  and  taught, 
These  two  years  now,  nor  arid  life  at  home, 
Her  father  sullen  and  her  mother  saddened  ; 
Nor  yet  that  talk  of  Alma  Bell  and  her 
That  like  a  corpse's  gas  has  scented  her, 
And  made  her  struggles  harder  in  LeRoy  — 
Not  these  have  quenched  her  flame,  or  made  it  burn 
Less  brightly.     Though  at  last  she  left  LeRoy 
To  fly  old  things,  the  dreary  home,  begin 
A  new  life  teaching  in  Los  Angeles. 
Gregory  Wenner  studies  her  and  thinks 
That  Alma  Bell  was  right  to  reprimand 
Elenor  Murray  for  her  reckless  ways 
Of  strolling  and  of  riding.     And  perhaps 
Real  things  were  back  of  ways  to  be  construed 
In  innocence  or  wisdom  —  for  who  knows? 

[62] 


GREGORY  WENNER 

His  thought  ran.     Such  a  pretty  face,  blue  eyes, 
And  such  a  buoyant  spirit. 

So  they  wandered 

About  the  Garden  of  the  Gods,  and  took 
A  meal  together  at  the  restaurant. 
And  as  they  talked,  he  told  her  of  himself, 
About  his  wife  long  ill,  this  trip  for  health  — 
She  sensed  a  music  sadness  in  his  soul. 
And  Gregory  Wenner  heard  her  tell  her  life 
Of  teaching,  of  the  arid  home,  the  shadow 
That  fell  on  her  at  ten  years,  when  she  saw 
The  hopeless,  loveless  life  of  father,  mother. 
And  his  great  hunger,  and  his  solitude 
Reached  for  the  soothing  hand  of  Elenor  Murray, 
And  Elenor  Murray  having  life  to  give 
By  her  maternal  strength  and  instinct  gave. 
The  man  began  to  laugh,  forgot  his  health, 
The  leaning  building,  and  the  money  lenders, 
And  found  his  void  of  spirit  growing  things  — 
He  loved  this  girl.     And  Elenor  Murray  seeing 
This  strong  man  with  his  love,  and  seeing  too 
How  she  could  help  him,  with  that  venturesome 
And  prodigal  emotion  which  was  hers 
Flung  all  herself  to  help  him,  being  a  soul 
Who  tried  all  things  in  courage,  staked  her  heart 
On  good  to  come. 

They  took  the  train  together. 
They  stopped  at  Santa  Cruz,  and  on  the  rocks 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Heard  the  Pacific  dash  himself  and  watched 
The  moon  upon  the  water,  breathed  the  scent 
Of  oriental  flowerings.     There  at  last 
Under  the  spell  of  nature  Gregory  Wenner 
Bowed  down  his  head  upon  his  breast  and  shook 
For  those  long  years  of  striving  and  of  haggling, 
And  for  this  girl,  but  mostly  for  a  love 
That  filled  him  now.     And  when  he  spoke  again 
Of  his  starved  life,  his  homeless  years,  the  girl, 
Her  mind  resolved  through  thinking  she  could  serve 
This  man  and  bring  him  happiness,  but  with  heart 
Flaming  to  heaven  with  the  miracle 
Of  love  for  him,  down  looking  at  her  hands 
Which  fingered  nervously  her  dress's  hem, 
Said  with  that  gasp  which  made  her  voice  so  sweet : 
"  Do  what  you  will  with  me,  to  ease  your  heart 
And  heln  your  life." 

And  Gregory  Wenner  shaken, 
Astonished  and  made  mad  with  ecstasy 
Pressed  her  brown  head  against  his  breast  and  wept. 
And  there  at  Santa  Cruz  they  lived  a  week, 
Till  Elenor  Murray  went  to  take  her  school, 
He  to  the  north  en  route  for  home. 

Five  years 

Had  passed  since  then.     And  on  this  day  poor  Wenner 
Looks  from  a  little  office  at  his  building 
Visibly  leaning  now,  the  building  lost, 
The  bonds  foreclosed;  this  is  the  very  day 

[64] 


GREGORY  WENNER 

A  court  gives  a  receiver  charge  of  it. 

And  he,  these  several  months  reduced  to  deals 

In  casual  properties,  in  trivial  trades, 

Hard  pressed  for  money,  has  gone  up  and  down 

Pursuing  prospects,  possibilities, 

Scanning  each  day  financial  sheets  and  looking 

For  clues  to  lead  to  money.     And  he  finds 

His  strength  and  hope  not  what  they  were  before. 

His  wife  is  living  on,  no  whit  restored. 

And  Gregory  Wenner  thinks,  would  they  not  say 

I  killed  myself  because  I  lost  my  building, 

If  I  should  kill  myself,  and  leave  a  note 

That  business  worries  drove  me  to  the  deed, 

My  building  this  day  taken,  a  receiver 

In  charge  of  what  I  builded  out  of  my  dream. 

And  yet  he  said  to  self,  that  would  be  false: 

It's  Elenor  Murray's  death  that  makes  this  life 

So  hard  to  bear,  and  thoughts  of  Elenor  Murray 

Make  life  a  torture.     First  that  I  had  to  live 

Without  her  as  my  wife,  and  next  the  fact 

That  I  have  taken  all  her  life's  thought,  ruined 

Her  chance  for  home  and  marriage;  that  I  have  seen 

Elenor  Murray  struggle  in  the  world, 

And  go  forth  to  the  war  with  just  the  thought 

To  serve,  if  it  should  kill  her. 

Then  his  mind 

Ran  over  these  five  years  when  Elenor  Murray 
Throughout  gave  such  devotion,  constant  thought, 
Filled  all  his  mind  and  heart,  and  kept  her  voice 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Singing  or  talking  in  his  memory's  ear, 

In  absence  with  long  letters,  when  together 

With  passionate  utterances  of  love.     The  girl 

Loved  Gregory  Wenner,  but  the  girl  had  found   ; 

A  comfort  for  her  spiritual  solitude, 

And  got  a  strength  in  taking  Wenner's  strength. 

For  at  the  last  one  soul  lives  on  another. 

And  Elenor  Murray  could  not  live  except 

She  had  a  soul  to  live  for,  and  a  soul     , 

On  which  to  pour  her  passion,  taking  back 

The  passion  of  that  soul  in  recompense. 

Gregory  Wenner  served  her  power  and  genius 

For  giving  and  for  taking  so  to  live, 

Achieve  and  flame;  and  found  them  in  some  moods 

Somehow  demoniac  when  his  spirits  sank, 

And  drink  was  all  that  kept  him  on  his  feet. 

And  so  when  Elenor  Murray  came  to  him 

And  said  this  life  of  teaching  was  too  much, 

Could  not  be  longer  borne,  he  thought  the  time 

Had  come  to  end  the  hopeless  love.     He  raised 

The  money  by  the  hardest  means  to  pay 

Elenor  Murray's  training  as  a  nurse, 

By  this  to  set  her  free  from  teaching  school, 

And  then  he  set  about  to  crush  the  girl 

Out  of  his  life. 

/ 

For  Gregory  Wenner  saw 
Between  this  passion  and  his  failing  thought, 
And  gray  hairs  coming,  fortune  slip  like  sand. 
And  saw  his  mind  diffuse  itself  in  worries, 

[66] 


GREGORY  WENNER 

In  longing  for  her:  found  himself  at  times 
Too  much  in  need  of  drink,  and  shrank  to  see 
What  wishes  rose  that  death  might  take  his  wife, 
And  let  him  marry  Elenor  Murray,  cure 
His  life  with  having  her  beside  him,  dreaming 
That  somehow  Elenor  Murray  could  restore 
His  will  and  vision,  by  her  passion's  touch, 
And  mother  instinct  make  him  whole  again. 
But  if  he  could  not  have  her  for  his  wife, 
And  since  the  girl  absorbed  him  in  this  life 
Of  separation  which  made  longing  greater, 
Just  as  it  lacked  the  medium  to  discharge 
The  great  emotion  it  created,  Wenner 
Caught  up  his  shreds  of  strength  to  crush  her  out 
Of  his  life,  told  her  so,  when  he  had  raised 
The  money  for  her  training.     For  he  saw 
How  ruin  may  overtake  a  man,  and  ruin 
Pass  by  the  woman,  whom  the  world  would  judge 
As  ruined  long  ago,     But  look,  he  thought, 
I  pity  her,  not  for  our  sin,  if  it  be, 
But  that  I  have  absorbed  her  life;  and  yet 
The  girl  is  mastering  life,  while  I  fall  down. 
She  has  absorbed  me,  if  the  wrong  lies  here. 
And  thus  his  thought  went  round. 

And  Elenor  Murray 

Accepted  what  he  said  and  went  her  way 
With  words  like  these :  "  My  love  and  prayers  are  yours 
While  life  is  with  us."     Then  she  turned  to  study, 
And  toiled  each  day  till  night  brought  such  fatigue 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

That  sleep  fell  on  her.     Was  it  to  forget? 

And  meanwhile  she  embraced  the  faith  and  poured 

Her  passion  driven  by  a  rapturous  will 

Into  religion,  trod  her  path  in  silence, 

Save  for  a  card  at  Christmas  time  for  him, 

Sometimes  a  little  message  from  some  place 

Whereto  her  duty  called  her. 

Gregory  Wenner 

Stands  at  the  window  of  his  desolate  office, 
And  looks  out  on  his  sixteen-story  building 
Irrevocably  lost  this  day.     His  mind  runs  back 
To  that  day  in  the  Garden  of  the  Gods, 
That  night  at  Santa  Cruz,  and  then  his  eyes 
Made  piercing  sharp  by  sorrow  cleave  the  clay 
That  lies  upon  the  face  of  Elenor  Murray, 
And  see  the  flesh  of  her  the  worms  have  now. 
How  strange,  he  thinks,  to  flit  into  this  life 
Singing  and  radiant,  to  suffer,  toil, 
To  serve  in  the  war,  return  to  girlhood's  scenes, 
To  die,  to  be  a  memory  for  a  day, 
Then  be  forgotten.     O,  this  life  of  ours. 
Why  is  not  God  ashamed  for  graveyards,  why 
So  thoughtless  of  our  passion  he  lets  play 
This  tragedy. 

And  Gregory  Wenner  thought 
About  the  day  he  stood  here,  even  as  now 
And  heard  a  step,  a  voice,  and  looked  around 
Saw  Elenor  Murray,  felt  her  arms  again, 
[68] 


GREGORY  WENNER 

Her  kiss  upon  his  cheek,  and  saw  her  face 

As  light  was  beating  on  it,  heard  her  gasp 

In  ecstasy  for  going  to  the  war, 

To  which  that  day  she  gave  her  pledge.     And  heard 

Her  words  of  consecration.     Heard  her  say, 

As  though  she  were  that  passionate  Heloise 

Brought  into  life  again :  "  All  I  have  done 

Was  done  for  love  of  you,  all  I  have  asked 

Was  only  you,  not  what  belonged  to  you. 

I  did  not  hope  for  marriage  or  for  gifts. 

I  have  not  gratified  my  will,  desires, 

But  yours  I  sought  to  gratify.     I  have  longed 

To  be  yours  wholly,  I  have  kept  for  self 

Nothing,  have  lived  for  you,  have  lived  for  you 

These  years  when  you  thought  best  to  crush  me  out. 

And  now  though  there's  a  secret  in  my  heart, 

Not  wholly  known  to  me,  still  I  can  know  it 

By  seeing  you  again,  I  think,  by  touching 

Your  hand  again.     Your  life  has  tortured  me, 

Both  for  itself,  and  since  I  could  not  give 

Out  of  my  heart  enough  to  make  your  life 

A  way  of  peace,  a  way  of  happiness." 

Then  Gregory  Wenner  thought  how  she  looked  down 
And  said:  "  Since  I  go  to  the  war,  would  God 
Look  with  disfavor  on  us  if  you  took  me 
In  your  arms  wholly  once  again?     My  friend, 
Not  with  the  thought  to  leave  me  soon,  but  sleeping 
Like  mates,  as  birds  do,  making  sleep  so  sweet 
Close  to  each  other  as  God  means  we  should. 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

I  mingle  love  of  God  with  love  of  you, 

And  in  the  night-time  I  can  pray  for  you 

With  you  beside  me,  find  God  closer  then. 

Who  knows,  you  may  take  strength  from  such  an  hour." 

Then  Gregory  Wenner  lived  that  night  again, 

And  the  next  morning  when  she  rose  and  shook, 

As  it  were  night  gathered  dew  upon  fresh  wings, 

The  vital  water  from  her  glowing  flesh. 

And  shook  her  hair  out,  laughed  and  said  to  him : 

"  Courage  and  peace,  my  friend."     And  how  they  passed 

Among  the  multitude,  when  he  took  her  hand 

And  said  farewell,  and  hastened  to  this  room 

To  seek  for  chances  in  another  day, 

And  never  saw  her  more. 

And  all  these  thoughts 

Coming  on  Gregory  Wenner  swept  his  soul 
Till  it  seemed  like  a  skiff  in  mid-sea  under 
A  sky  unreckoning,  where  neither  bread, 
Nor  water,  save  salt  water,  were  for  lips. 
And  over  him  descended  a  blank  light 
Of  life's  futility,  since  now  this  hour 
Life  dropped  the  mask  and  showed  him  just  a  skull. 
And  a  strange  fluttering  of  the  nerves  came  on  him, 
So  that  he  clutched  the  window  frame,  lest  he 
Spring  from  the  window  to  the  street  below. 
And  he  was  seized  with  fear  that  said  to  fly, 
Go  somewhere,  find  some  one,  so  to  draw  out 
This  madness  which  was  one  with  him  and  in  him, 
And  which  some  one  in  pity  must  relieve, 

[70] 


MRS.  GREGORY  WENNER 

Something  must  cure.     And  in  this  sudden  horror 
Of  self,  this  ebbing  of  the  tides  of  life, 
Leaving  his  shores  to  visions,  where  he  saw 
Horrible  creatures  stir  amid  the  slime, 
Gregory  Wenner  hurried  from  the  room 
And  walked  the  streets  to  find  his  thought  again 
Wherewith  to  judge  if  he  should  kill  himself 
Or  look  to  find  a  path  in  life  once  more. 

And  Gregory  Wenner  sitting  in  his  club 

Wrote  to  his  brother  thus:  "  I  cannot  live 

Now  that  my  business  is  so  tangled  up, 

Bury  my  body  by  my  father's  side." 

Next  day  the  papers  headlined  Gregory  Wenner: 

"  Loss  of  a  building  drives  to  suicide." 


Elenor  Murray's  death  kills  Gregory  Wenner 
And  Gregory  Wenner  dying  make  a  riffle 
In  Mrs.  Wenner's  life  —  reveals  to  her 
A  secret  long  concealed: — 


MRS.  GREGORY  WENNER 

Gregory  Wenner's  wife  was  by  the  sea 

When  Gregory  Wenner  killed  himself,  half  sick 

And  half  malingering,  and  otiose. 

She  wept,  sent  for  a  doctor  to  be  braced, 

Induced  a  friend  to  travel  with  her  west 

[71] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

To  bury  Gregory  Wenner;  did  not  know 
That  Gregory  Wenner  was  in  money  straits 
Until  she  read  the  paper,  or  had  lost 
His  building  in  the  loop.     The  man  had  kept 
His  worries  from  her  ailing  ears,  was  glad 
To  keep  her  traveling,  or  taking  cures. 

She  came  and  buried  Gregory  Wenner;  found 

His  fortune  just  a  shell,  the  building  lost, 

A  little  money  in  the  bank,  a  store 

Far  out  on  Lake  Street,  forty  worthless  acres 

In  northern  Indiana,  twenty  lots 

In  some  Montana  village.     Here  she  was, 

A  widow,  penniless,  an  invalid. 

The  crude  reality  of  things  awoke 

A  strength  she  did  not  dream  was  hers.     And  then 

She  went  to  Gregory  Wenner's  barren  office 

To  collect  the  things  he  had,  get  in  his  safe 

For  papers  and  effects. 

She  had  to  pay 

An  expert  to  reveal  the  combination, 
And  throw  the  bolts.     And  there  she  sat  a  day, 
And  emptied  pigeon  holes  and  searched  and  read. 
And  in  one  pigeon  hole  she  found  a  box, 
And  in  the  box  a  lock  of  hair  wrapped  up 
In  tissue  paper,  fragrant  powder  lying 
Around  the  paper  —  in  the  box  a  card 
With  woman's  writing  on  it,  just  the  words 
"  For  my  beloved  " ;  but  no  name  or  date. 

[72] 


MRS.  GREGORY  WENNER 

Who  was  this  woman  mused  the  widow  there? 

She  did  not  know  the  name.     She  did  not  know 

Her  eyes  had  seen  this  Elenor  Murray  once 

When  Elenor  Murray  came  with  Gregory  Wenner 

To  dinner  at  his  home  to  face  the  wife. 

For  Elenor  Murray  in  a  mood  of  strength, 

After  her  confirmation  and  communion, 

Had  said  to  Gregory  Wenner:  "  Now  the  end 

Has  come  to  this,  our  love,  I  think  it  best 

If  she  should  ever  learn  I  am  the  woman 

Who  in  New  York  spent  summer  days  with  you, 

And  later  in  Chicago,  in  that  summer, 

She  will  remember  what  my  eyes  will  show 

When  we  stand  face  to  face,  and  I  give  proof 

That  I  am  changed,  repentant." 

For  the  wife 

Had  listened  to  a  friend  who  came  to  tell 
She  saw  this  Gregory  Wenner  in  New  York 
From  day  to  day  in  gardens  and  cafes, 
And  by  the  sea  romancing  with  a  girl. 
And  later  Mrs.  Wenner  found  a  book, 
Which    Gregory    Wenner    cherished  —  with    the    words 
Beloved,  and  the  date.     And  now  she  knew 
The  hand  that  wrote  the  card  here  in  this  box, 
The  hand  that  wrote  the  inscription  in  the  book 
Were  one  —  but  still  she  did  not  know  the  woman. 
No  doubt  the  woman  of  that  summer's  flame, 
Whom  Gregory  Wenner  promised  not  to  see 
When  she  brought  out  the  book  and  told  him  all 

[73] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

She  learned  of  his 'philandering  in  New  York. 
And  Elenor  Murray's  body  was  decaying 
In  darkness,  under  earth  there  at  LeRoy 
While  Mrs.  Wenner  read,  and  did  not  know 
The  hand  that  wrote  the  card  lay  blue  and  green, 
Half  hidden  in  the  foldings  of  the  shroud, 
And  all  that  country  stirred  for  Elenor  Murray, 
Of  which  the  widow  absent  in  the  east 
Had  never  heard. 

And  Mrs.  Wenner  found 
Beside  the  box  and  lock  of  hair  three  letters, 
And  sat  and  read  them.     Through  her  eyes  and  brain 
This  meaning  and  this  sound  of  blood  and  soul, 
Like  an  old  record  with  a  diamond  needle. 
Passed  music  like: — 

"  The  days  go  swiftly  by 
With  study  and  with  work.     I  am  too  tired 
At  night  to  think.     I  read  anatomy, 
Materia  medica  and  other  things, 
And  do  the  work  an  undergraduate 
Is  called  upon  to  do.     And  every  week 
I  spend  three  afternoons  with  the  nuns  and  sew, 
And  care  for  children  of  the  poor  whose  mothers 
Are  earning  bread  away.     I  go  to  church 
And  talk  with  Mother  Janet.     And  I  pray 
At  morning  and  at  night  for  you,  and  ask 
For  strength  to  live  without  you  and  for  light 
To  understand  why  love  of  you  is  mine, 

[74] 


MRS.  GREGORY  WENNER 

And  why  you  are  not  mine,  and  whether  God 

Will  give  you  to  me  some  day  if  I  prove 

My  womanhood  is  worthy  of  you,  dear. 

And  sometimes  when  our  days  of  bliss  come  back 

And  flood  me  with  their  warmth  and  blinding  light 

I  take  my  little  crucifix  and  kiss  it, 

And  plunge  in  work  to  take  me  out  of  self, 

Some  service  to  another.     So  it  is, 

This  sewing  and  this  caring  for  the  children 

Stills  memory  and  gives  me  strength  to  live, 

And  pass  the  days,  go  on.     I  shall  not  draw 

Upon  your  thought  with  letters,  still  I  ask 

Your  thought  of  me  sometimes.     Would  it  be  much 

If  once  a  year  you  sent  me  a  bouquet 

To  prove  to  me  that  you  remember,  sweet, 

Still  cherish  me  a  little,  give  me  faith 

That  in  this  riddle  world  there  is  a  hand, 

Which  spite  of  separation,  thinks  and  touches 

Blossoms  that  I  touch  afterward?     Dear  heart, 

I  have  starved  out  and  killed  that  reckless  mood 

Which  would  have  taken  you  and  run  away. 

Oh,  if  you  knew  that  this  means  killing,  too, 

The  child  I  want  —  our  child.     You  have  a  cross 

No  less  than  I,  beloved,  even  if  love 

Of  me  has  passed  and  eased  the  agony 

I  thought  you  knew  —  your  cross  is  heavy,  dear, 

Bound,  but  not  wedded  to  her,  never  to  know 

The  life  of  marriage  with  her.     Yet  be  brave, 

Be  noble,  dear,  be  always  what  God  made  you, 

A  great  heart,  patient,  gentle,  sacrificing, 

[75] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Bring  comfort  to  her  tedious  days,  forbear 

When  she  is  petulant,  for  if  you  do, 

I  know  God  will  reward  you,  give  you  peace. 

I  pray  for  strength  for  you,  that  never  again 

May  you  distress  her  as  you  did,  I  did 

When  she  found  there  was  someone.     Lest  she  know 

Destroy  this  letter,  all  I  ever  write, 

So  that  her  mind  may  never  fix  itself 

Upon  a  definite  person,  on  myself. 

But  still  remaining  vague  may  better  pass 

To  lighter  shadows,  nothingness  at  last. 

I  try  to  think  I  sinned,  have  so  confessed 

To  get  forgiveness  at  my  first  communion. 

And  yet  a  vestige  of  a  thought  in  me 

Will  not  submit,  confess  the  sin.     Well,  dear, 

You  can  awake  at  midnight,  at  the  pause 

Of  duty  in  the  day,  merry  or  sad, 

Light  hearted  or  discouraged,  if  you  chance, 

To  think  of  me,  remember  I  send  prayers 

To  God  for  you  each  day  —  oh  may  His  light 

Shine   on  your   face!  " 

So  Widow  Wenner  read, 
And  wondered  of  the  writer,  since  no  name 
Was  signed;  and  wept  a  little,  dried  her  eyes 
And   flushed  with   anger,   said,   "  adulteress, 
Adulteress  who  played  the  game  of  pity, 
And  wove  about  my  husband's  heart  the  spell 
Of  masculine  sympathy  for  a  sorrowing  woman, 
A  trick  as  old  as  Eden.     And  who  knows 

[76] 


MRS.  GREGORY  WENNER 

But  all  the  money  went  here  in  the  end? 
For  if  a  woman  plunges  from  her  aim 
To  piety,  devotion  such  as  this, 
She  will  plunge  back  to  sin,  unstable  heart, 
That  swings  from  self-denial  to  indulgence 
And  spends  itself  in  both." 

Then  Widow  Wenner 
Took  up  the  second  letter: 

"  I  have  signed 

To  go  to  France  to-day.     I  wrote  you  once 
I  planned  to  take  the  veil,  become  a  nun. 
But  now  the  war  has  changed  my  thought.     I  see 
In  service  for  my  country  fuller  life, 
More  useful  sacrifice  and  greater  work 
Than  ever  I  could  have,  being  a  nun. 
The  cause  is  so  momentous.     Think,  my  dear, 
This  woman  who  still  thinks  of  you  will  be 
A  factor  in  this  war  for  liberty, 
A  soldier  serving  soldiers,  giving  strength, 
Health,  hope  and  spirit  to  the  soldier  boys 
Who  fall,  must  be  restored  to  fight  again. 
I've  thrown  my  soul  in  this,  am  all  aflame. 
You  should  have  seen  me  when  I  took  the  oath, 
And  raised  my  hand  and  pledged  my  word  to  serve, 
Support  the  law.     I  want  to  think  of  you 
As  proud  of  me  for  doing  this  —  be  proud, 
Be  grateful,  too,  that  I  have  strength  and  will 
To  give  myself  to  this.     And  if  it  chance, 

[77] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

As  almost  I  am  hoping,  that  the  work 

Should  break  me,  sweep  me  under,  think  of  me 

As  one  who  died  for  country,  as  I  shall 

As  truly  as  the  soldiers  slain  in  battle. 

I  leave  to-morrow,  will  be  at  a  camp 

Some  weeks  before  I  sail.     I  telephoned  you 

This  morning  twice,  they  said  you  would  return 

By  two-o'clock  at  least.     I  write  instead. 

But  I  shall  come  to  see  you,  if  I  can 

Sometime  this  afternoon,  and  if  I  don't,    , 

This  letter  then  must  answer.     Peace  be  with  you. 

To-day  I'm  very  happy.     Write  to  me, 

Or  if  you  do  not  think  it  best,  all  right, 

I'll  understand.     Before  I  sail  I'll  send 

A  message  to  you  —  for  the  time  farewell." 

Then  Widow  Wenner  read  the  telegram 
The  third  and  last  communication :  "  Sail 
To-day,  to-morrow,  very  soon,  I  know. 
My   memories   of   you   are  happy   ones. 
A  fond  adieu."     This  telegram  was  signed 
By  Elenor  Murray.     Widow  Wenner  knew 
The  name  at  last,  sat  petrified  to  think 
This  was  the  girl  who  brazened  through  the  dinner 
Some  years  ago  when  Gregory  Wenner  brought 
This  woman  to  his  home  — "  the  shameless  trull," 
Said  Mrs.  Wenner,  "  harlot,  impudent  jade, 
To  think  my  husband  is  dead,  would  she  were  dead 
I  could  be  happy  if  I  knew  a  bomb 
Or  vile  disease  had  got  her."     Then  she  looked 

[78] 


MRS.  GREGORY  WENNER 

In  other  pigeon  holes,  and  found  in  one 
A  photograph  of  Elenor  Murray,  knew 
The  face  that  looked  across  the  dinner  table. 
And  in  the  pigeon  hole  she  found  some  verses 
Clipped  from  a  magazine,  and  tucked  away 
The  letters,  verses,  telegram  in  her  bag, 
Closed  up  the  safe  and  left. 

Next  day  at  breakfast 

She  scanned  the  morning  Times,  her  eyes  were  wide 
For  reading  of  the  Elenor  Murray  inquest. 
"  Well,  God  is  just,"  she  murmured,  "  God  is  just." 


All  this  was  learned  of  Gregory  Wenner.     Even 

If  Gregory  Wenner  killed  the  girl,  the  man 

Was  dead  now.     Could  he  kill  her  and  return 

And  kill  himself?     The  coroner  had  gone, 

The  jury  too,  to  view  the  spot  where  lay 

Elenor  Murray's  body.     It  was  clear 

A  man  had  walked  here.     Was  it  Gregory  Wenner  ? 

The  hunter  who  came  up  and  found  the  body  ? 

This  hunter  was  a  harmless,  honest  soul 

Could  not  have  killed  her,  passed  the  grill  of  questions 

From  David  Borrow,  skilled  examiner, 

The  coroner,  the  jurors.     But  meantime 

If  Gregory  Wenner  killed  this  Elenor  Murray 

How  did  he  do  it?     Dr.  Trace  has  made 

His  autopsy  and  comes  and  makes  report 

To  the  coroner  and  the  jury  in  these  words:  — 

[79] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 


DR.  TRACE  TO  THE  CORONER 

I  cannot  tell  you,  Coroner,  the  cause 

Of  death  of  Elenor  Murray,  not  until 

My  chemical  analysis  is  finished. 

Here  is  the  woman's  heart  sealed  in  this  jar, 

I  weighed  it,  weight  nine  ounces,  if  she  had 

A  hemolysis,  cannot  tell  you  now 

What  caused  the  hemolysis.     Since  you  say 

She  took  no  castor  oil,  that  you  can  learn 

From  Irma  Leese,  or  any  witness,  still 

A  chemical  analysis  may  show 

The  presence  of  ricin, —  and  that  she  took 

A  dose  of  oil  not  pure.     Her  throat  betrayed 

Slight  inflammation;  but  in  brief,  I  wait 

My  chemical  analysis. 

Let's  exclude 

The  things  we  know  and  narrow  down  the  facts. 
She  lay  there  by  the  river,  death  had  come 
Some  twenty  hours  before.     No  stick  or  stone, 
No  weapon  near  her,  bottle,  poison  box, 
No  bruise  upon  her,  in  her  mouth  no  dust, 
No  foreign  bodies  in  her  nostrils,  neck 
Without  a  mark,  no  punctures,  cuts  or  scars 
Upon  her  anywhere,  no  water  in  lungs, 
No  mud,  sand,  straws  or  weeds  in  hands,  the  nails 
Clean,  as  if  freshly  manicured. 

[80] 


DR.  TRACE  TO  THE  CORONER 

Again 

No  evidence  of  rape.     I  first  examined 
The  genitals  in  situ,  found  them  sound. 
The  girl  had  lived,  was  not  a  virgin,  still 
Had  temperately  indulged,  and  not  at  all 
In  recent  months,  no  evidence  at  all 
Of  conjugation  willingly  or  not, 
The  day  of  death.     But  still  I  lifted  out 
The  ovaries,  fallopian  tubes  and  uterus, 
The  vagina  and  vulvae.     Opened  up 
The  mammals,  found  no  milk.-    No  pregnancy 
Existed,  sealed  these  organs  up  to  test 
For  poison  later,  as  we  doctors  know 
Sometimes  a  poison's  introduced  per  vaginam. 

I  sealed  the  brain  up  too,  shall  make  a  test 
Of  blood  and  serum  for  urea;  death 
Comes  suddenly  from  that,  you  find  no  lesion, 
Must  take  a  piece  of  brain  and  cut  it  up, 
Pour  boiling  water  on  it,  break  the  brain 
To  finer  pieces,   pour  the  water  off, 
Digest  the  piece  of  brain  in  other  water, 
Repeat  four  times,  the  solutions  mix  together, 
Dry  in  an  oven,  treat  with  ether,  at  last 
The  residue  put  on  a  slide  of  glass 
With  nitric  acid,  let  it  stand  awhile, 
Then  take  your  microscope  —  if   there's  urea 
You'll  see  the  crystals  —  very  beautiful! 
A  cobra's  beautiful,  but  scarce  can  kill 
As  quick  as  these. 

[81] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Likewise  I  have  sealed  up 
The  stomach,  liver,  kidneys,  spleen,  intestines, 
So  many  poisons  have  no  microscopic 
Appearance  that  convinces,  opium, 
Hyoscyamus,  belladonna  fool  us ; 
But  as  the  stomach  had  no  inflammation, 
It  was  not  chloral,  ether  took  her  off, 
Which  we  can  smell,  to  boot.     But  I  can  find 
Strychnia,  if  it  killed  her;  though  you  know 
That  case  in  England  sixty  years  ago, 
Where  the  analysis  did  not  disclose 
Strychnia,  though  they  hung  a  man  for  giving 
That  poison  to  a  fellow. 

To  recur 

I'm  down  to  this:     Perhaps  a  hemolysis  — 
But  what  produced  it?     If  I  find  no  ricin 
I  turn  to  streptococcus,  deadly  snake, 
Or  shall  I  call  him  tiger?     For  I  think 
The  microscopic  world  of  living  things 
Is  just  a  little  jungle,  filled  with  tigers, 
Snakes,  lions,  what  you  will,  with  teeth  and  claws, 
The  perfect  miniatures  of  these  monstrous  foes. 
Sweet  words  come  from  the  lips  and  tender  hands 
Like  Elenor  Murray's,  minister,  nor  know 
The  jungle  has  been  roused  in  throat  or  lungs; 
And  shapes  venene  begin  to  crawl  and  eat 
The  ruddy  apples  of  the  blood,  eject 
Their  triple  venomous  excreta  in 
The  channels  of  the  body. 

[82] 


DR.  TRACE  TO  THE  CORONER 

There's  the  heart, 

Which  may  be  weakened  by  a  streptococcus. 
But  if  she  had  a  syncope  and  fell 
She  must  have  bruised  her  body  or  her  head. 
And  if  she  had  a  syncope,  was  held  up, 
,Who  held  her  up?     That  might  have  cost  her  life: 
To  be  held  up  in  syncope.     You  know 
You  lay  a  person  down  in  syncope, 
And  oftentimes  the  heart  resumes  its  beat. 
Perhaps  she  was  held  up  until  she  died, 
Then  laid  there  by  the  river,  so  no  bruise. 
So  many  theories  come  to  me.     But  again, 
I  say  to  you,  look  for  a  man.     Run  down 
All  clues  of  Gregory  Wenner.     He  is  dead  — 
Loss  of  a  building  drives  to  suicide  — 
The  papers  say,  but  still  it  may  be  true 
He  was  with  Elenor  Murray  when  she  died, 
Pushed  her,  we'll  say,  or  struck  her  in  a  way 
To  leave  no  mark,  a  tap  upon  the  heart 
That  shocked  the  muscles  more  or  less  obscure 
That  bind  the  auricles  and  ventricles, 
And  killed  her.     Then  he  flies  away  in  fear, 
Aghast  at  what  he  does,  and  kills  himself. 
Look  for  a  man,  I  say.     It  must  be  true, 
She  went  so  secretly  to  walk  that  morning 
To  meet  a  man  —  why  would  she  walk  alone  ? 

So  while  you  hunt  the  man,  I'll  look  for  ricin, 
And  with  my  chemicals  end  up  the  search. 
I  never  saw  a  heart  more  beautiful, 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Just  look  at  it.     We  doctors  all  agreed 
This  Elenor  Murray  might  have  lived  to  ninety 
Except  for  jungles,  poison,  sudden  shock. 
I  take  my  bottle  with  the  heart  of  Elenor 
And  go  about  my  way.     It  beat  in  France, 
It  beat  for  France  and  for  America, 
But  what  is  truer,  somewhere  was  a  man 
For  whom  it  beat ! 


When  Irma  Leese,  the  Aunt  of  Elenor  Murray, 

Appeared  before  the  coroner  she  told 

Of  Elenor  Murray's  visit,  of  the  morning 

She  left  to  walk,  was  never  seen  again. 

And  brought  the  coroner  some  letters  sent 

By  Elenor  from  France.     What  follows  now 

Is  what  the  coroner,  or  the  jury  heard 

From  Irma  Leese,  from  letters  drawn  —  beside 

The  riffle  that  the  death  of  Elenor  Murray 

Sent  round  the  life  of  Irma  Leese,  which  spread 

To  Tokio  and  touched  a  man,  the  son 

Of  Irma  Leese's  sister,  dead  Corinne, 

The  mother  of  this  man  in  Tokio. 


IRMA  LEESE 

Elenor  Murray  landing  in  New  York, 
After  a  weary  voyage,  none  too  well, 
Staid  in  the  city  for  a  week  and  then 


IRMA  LEESE 

Upon  a  telegram  from  Irma  Leese, 
Born  Irma  Fouche,  her  aunt  who  lived  alone 
This  summer  in  the  Fouche  house  near  LeRoy, 
Came  west  to  visit  Irma  Leese  and  rest. 

For  Elenor  Murray  had  not  been  herself 
Since  that  hard  spring  when  in  the  hospital, 
Caring  for  soldiers  stricken  with  the  flu, 
She  took  bronchitis,  after  weeks  in  bed 
Rose  weak  and  shaky,  crept  to  health  again 
Through  egg-nogs,  easy  strolls  about  Bordeaux. 
And  later  went  to  Nice  upon  a  furlough 
To  get  her  strength  again. 

But  while  she  saw 

Her  vital  flame  burn  brightly,  as  of  old 
On  favored  days,  yet  for  the  rest  the  flame 
Sputtered  or  sank  a  little.     So  she  thought 
How  good  it  might  be  to  go  west  and  stroll 
About  the  lovely  country  of  LeRoy, 
And  hear  the  whispering  cedars  by  a  window 
In  the  Fouche  mansion  where  this  Irma  Leese, 
Her  aunt,  was  summering.     So  she  telegraphed, 
And  being  welcomed,  went. 

This  stately  house, 

Built  sixty  years  before  by  Arthur  Fouche, 
A  brick  home  with  a  mansard  roof,  an  oriel 
That  looked  between  the  cedars,  and  a  porch 
With  great  Ionic  columns,  from  the  street 

[85] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Stood  distantly  amid  ten  acres  of  lawn, 
Trees,  flower  plots  —  belonged  to  Irma  Leese, 
Who  had  reclaimed  it  from  a  chiropractor, 
To  cleanse  the  name  of  Fouche  from  that  indignity, 
And  bring  it  in  the  family  again, 
Since  she  had  spent  her  girlhood,  womanhood 
To  twenty  years  amid  its  twenty  rooms. 
For  Irma  Leese  at  twenty  years  had  married 
And  found  herself  at  twenty-five  a  widow, 
With  money  left  her,  then  had  tried  again, 
And  after  years  dissolved  the  second  pact, 
And  made  a  settlement,  was  rich  in  fact, 
Now  forty-two.     Five  years  before  had  come 
And  found  the  house  she  loved  a  sanitarium, 
A  chiropractor's  home.     And  as  she  stood 
Beside  the  fence  and  saw  the  oriel, 
Remembered  all  her  happiness  on  this  lawn 
With  brothers  and  with  sisters,  one  of  whom 
Was  Elenor  Murray's  mother,  then  she  willed 
To  buy  the  place  and  spend  some  summers  here. 
And  here  she  was  the  summer  Elenor  Murray 
Returned  from  France. 


And  Irma  Leese  had  said : 
"  Here  is  your  room,  it  has  the  oriel, 
And  there's  the  river  and  the  hills  for  you. 
Have  breakfast  in  your  room  what  hour  you  will, 
Rise  when  you  will.     We'll  drive  and  walk  and  rest, 
Run  to  Chicago  when  we  have  a  mind. 

[86] 


IRMA  LEESE 

I  have  a  splendid  chauffeur  now  and  maids. 
You  must  grow  strong  and  well." 

And   Elenor  Murray 

Gasped  out  her  happiness  for  the  pretty  room, 
And  stood  and  viewed  the  river  and  the  hills, 
And  wept  a  little  on  the  gentle  shoulder 
Of  Irma  Leese. 

And  so  the  days  had  passed 
Of  walking,  driving,  resting,  many  talks; 
For  Elenor  Murray  spoke  to  Irma  Leese 
Of  tragic  and  of  rapturous  days  in  France, 
And  Irma  Leese,  though  she  had  lived  full  years, 
Had  scarcely  lived  as  much  as  Elenor  Murray, 
And  could  not  hear  enough  from  Elenor  Murray 
Of  the  war  and  France,  but  mostly  she  would  urge 
Her  niece  to  tell  of  what  affairs  of  love 
Had  come  to  her.     And  Elenor  Murray  told 
Of  Gregory  Wenner,  save  she  did  not  tell 
The  final  secret,  with  a  gesture  touched 
The  story  off  by  saying:     It  was  hopeless, 
I  went  into  religion  to  forget. 
But  on  a  day  she  said  to  Irma  Leese: 
"  I  almost  met  my  fate  at  Nice,"  then  sketched 
A  hurried  picture  of  a  brief  romance. 
But  Elenor  Murray  told  her  nothing  else 
Of  loves  or  men.     But  all  the  while  the  aunt 
Weighed  Elenor  Murray,  on  a  day  exclaimed: 
"  I  see  myself  in  you,  and  you  are  like 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Your  Aunt  Corinne  who  died  in  ninety-two. 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  your  Aunt  Corinne 
Some  day  when  we  are  talking,  but  I  see 
You  have  the  Fouche  blood  —  we  are  lovers  all. 
Your  mother  is  a  lover,  Elenor, 
If  you  would  know  it." 

"  O,  your  Aunt  Corinne 
She  was  most  beautiful,  but  unfortunate. 
Her  husband  was  past  sixty  when  she  married, 
And  she  was  thirty-two.     He  was  distinguished, 
Had  money  and  all  that,  but  youth  is  all, 
Is  everything  for  love,  and  she  was  young, 
And  he  was  old." 

A  week  or  two  had  passed 
Since  Elenor  Murray  came  to  Irma  Leese, 
When  on  a  morning  fire  broke  from  the  eaves 
And  menaced  all  the  house ;  but  maids  and  gardeners 
With  buckets  saved  the  house,  while  Elenor  Murray 
And  Irma  Leese  dipped  water  from  the  barrels 
That  stood  along  the  ell. 

A  week  from  that 

A  carpenter  was  working  at  the  eaves 
Along  the  ell,  and  in  the  garret  knelt 
To  pry  up  boards  and  patch.     When  as  he  pried 
A  board  up,  he  beheld  between  the  rafters 
A  package  of  old  letters  stained  and  frayed, 
Tied   with   a   little   ribbon   almost   dust. 

[88] 


IRMA  LEESE 

And  when  he  went  down-stairs,  delivered  it 
To  Irma  Leese  and  said:     Here  are  some  letters 
I  found  up  in  the  garret  under  the  floor, 
I  pried  up  in  my  work. 

Then  Irma  Leese 

Looked  at  the  letters,  saw  her  sister's  hand, 
Corinne's  upon  the  letters,  opened,  read, 
And  saw  the  story  which  she  knew  before 
Brought  back  in  this  uncanny  way,  the  hand 
Which  wrote  the  letters  six  and  twenty  years 
Turned  back  to  dust.     And  when  her  niece  came  in 
She  showed  the  letters,  said,  "  I'll  let  you  read, 
I'll  tell  you  all  about  them  ": 

"  When  Corinne 

Was  nineteen,  very  beautiful  and  vital, 
Red-cheeked,  a  dancer,  bubbling  like  new  wine, 
A  catch,  as  you  may  know,  you  see  this  house 
Was  full  of  laughter  then,  so  many  children. 
We  had  our  parties,  too,  and  young  men  thought, 
Each  one  of  us  would  have  a  dowry  splendid  — 
A  young  man  from  Chicago  came  along, 
A  lawyer  there,  but  lately  come  from  Pittsburgh 
To  practice,  win  his  way.     I  knew  this  man. 
He  was  a  handsome  dog  with  curly  hair, 
Blue  eyes  and  sturdy  figure.     Well,  Corinne 
Quite  lost  her  heart.     He  came  here  to  a  dance, 
And  so  the  game  commenced.     And  father  thought 
The  fellow  was  not  right,  but  all  of  us, 

[89] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Your  mother  and  myself  said,  yes  he  is, 

And  we  conspired  to  help  Corinne  and  smooth 

The  path  of  confidence.     But  later  on 

Corinne  was  not  so  buoyant,  would  not  talk 

With  me,  your  mother  freely.     Then  at  last 

Her  eyes  were  sometimes  red ;  we  knew  she  wept. 

And,  then  Corinne  was  sent  away.     Well,  here 

You'll  guess  the  rest.     Her  health  was  breaking  down, 

That's  true  enough;  the  world  could  think  its  thoughts, 

And  say  his  love  grew  cold,  or  she  found  out 

The  black-leg  that  he  was,  and  he  was  that. 

But  Elenor,  the  truth  was  more  than  that, 

Corinne  had  been  betrayed,  she  went  away 

To  right  herself  —  these  letters  prove  the  case, 

Which  all  the  gossips,  busy  as  they  were, 

Could  not  make  out.     The  paper  at  LeRoy 

Had  printed  that  she  went  to  pay  a  visit 

To  relatives  in  the  east.     Three  months  or  so 

She  came  back  well  and  rosy.     But  meanwhile 

Your  grandfather  had  paid  this  shabby  scoundrel 

A  sum  of  money,  I  forget  the  sum, 

To  get  these  letters  of  your  Aunt  Corinne  — 

These  letters  here.     This  matter  leaked,  of  course. 

And  then  we  let  the  story  take  this  form 

And  moulded  it  a  little  to  this  form: 

The  fellow  was  a  scoundrel  —  this  was  proved 

When  he  took  money  to  return  her  letters. 

They  were  love  letters,  they  had  been  engaged. 

She  thought  him  worthy,  found  herself  deceived 

Proved,  too,  by  taking  money,  when  at  first 

[90] 


IRMA  LEESE 

He  looked  with  honorable  eyes  to  young  Corinne, 
And  won  her  trust.     And  so  Corinne  lived  here 
Ten  years  or  more,  at  thirty  married  the  judge, 
Her  senior  thirty  years,  and  went  away. 
She  bore  a  child  and  died  —  look  Elenor 
Here  are  the  letters  which  she  took  and  nailed 
Beneath  the  garret  floor.     We'll  read  them  through, 
And  then  I'll  burn  them." 

Irma  Leese  rose  up 

And  put  the  letters  in  her  desk  and  said: 
"  Let's  ride  along  the  river."     So  they  rode, 
But  as  they  rode,  the  day  being  clear  and  mild 
The  fancy  took  them  to  Chicago,  where 
They  lunched  and  spent  the  afternoon,  returning 
At  ten  o'clock  that  night. 

And  the  next  morning 
When  Irma  Leese  expected  Elenor 
To  rise  and  join  her,  asked  for  her,  a  maid 
Told  Irma  Leese  that  Elenor  had  gone 
To  walk  somewhere.     And  all  that  day  she  waited. 
But  as  night  came,  she  fancied  Elenor 
Had  gone  to  see  her  mother,  once  rose  up 
To  telephone,  then  stopped  because  she  felt 
Elenor  might  have  plans  she  would  not  wish 
Her  mother  to  get  wind  of  —  let  it  go. 
But  when  night  came,  she  wondered,  fell  asleep 
With  wondering  and  worry. 

[91] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

But  next  morning 

As  she  was  waiting  for  the  car  to  come 
To  motor  to  LeRoy,  and  see  her  sister, 
Elenor's  mother,  in  a  casual  way, 
Learn  if  her  niece  was  there,  and  waiting  read 
The  letters  of  Corinne,  the  telephone 
Rang  in  an  ominous  way,  and  Irma  Leese 
Sprang  up  to  answer,  got  the  tragic  word 
Of  Elenor  Murray  found  beside  the  river. 
Left  all  the  letters  spilled  upon  her  desk 
And  motored  to  the  river,  to  LeRoy 
Where  Coroner  Merival  took  the  body. 

Just 

As  Irma  Leese  departed,  in  the  room 
A  sullen  maid  revengeful  for  the  fact 
She  was  discharged,  was  leaving  in  a  day, 
Entered  and  saw  the  letters,  read  a  little, 
And  gathered  them,  went  to  her  room  and  packed 
Her  telescope  and  left,  went  to  LeRoy, 
And  gave  a  letter  to  this  one  and  that, 
Until  the  servant  maids  and  carpenters 
And  some  lubricous  fellows  at  LeRoy 
Who  made  companions  of   these  serving  maids, 
Had  each  a  letter  of  the  dead  Corinne, 
Which  showed  at  last,  after  some  twenty  years, 
Of  silence  and  oblivion,  to  LeRoy 
With  memory  to  refresh,  that  poor  Corinne 
Had  given  her  love,  herself,  had  been  betrayed, 
Abandoned  by  a  scoundrel. 

[92] 


IRMA  LEESE 

Merival, 

The  Coroner,  when  told  about  the  letters, 
For  soon  the  tongues  were  wagging  in  LeRoy, 
Went  here  and  there  to  find  them,  till  he  learned 
What  quality  of  love  the  dead  Corinne 
Had  given  to  this  man.     Then  shook  his  head, 
Resolved  to  see  if  he  could  not  unearth 
In  Elenor  Murray's  life  some  faithless  lover 
Who  sought  her  death. 

The  letters'  riffle  crawled 
Through  shadows  of  the  waters  of  LeRoy 
Until  it  looked  a  snake,  was  seen  as  such 
In  Tokio  by  Franklin  Hollister, 
The  son  of  dead  Corinne ;  it  seemed  a  snake : 
He  heard  the  coroner  through  neglect  or  malice 
Had  let  the  letters  scatter  —  not  the  truth ;  - 
The  coroner  had  gathered  up  the  letters, 
Befriending  Irma  Leese;   she  got  them  back 
Through  Merival.     The  riffle's  just  the  same. 
And  hence  this  man  in  Tokio  is  crazed 
For  shame  and  fear  —  for  fear  the  girl  he  loves 
Will  hear  his  mother's  story  and  break  off 
Her  marriage  promise. 

So  in  reckless  rage 

He  posts  a  letter  off  to  Lawyer  Hood, 
Chicago,  Illinois  —  the  coroner 
Gets  all  the  story  through  this  Lawyer  Hood, 
Long  after  Elenor's  inquest  is  at  end. 

[93] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Meantime  he  cools,  is  wiser,  thinks  it  bad 

To  stir  the  scandal  with  a  suit  at  law. 

And  then  when  cooled  he  hears  from  Lawyer  Hood 

Who  tells  him  what  the  truth  is.     So  it  ends. 


These  letters  and  the  greenish  wave  that  coiled 

At  Tokio  is  beyond  the  coroner's  eye 

Fixed  on  the  water  where  the  pebble  fell:  — 

This  death  of  Elenor,  circles  close  at  hand 

Engage  his  interest.     Now  he  seeks  to  learn 

About  her  training  and  religious  life. 

And  hears  of  Miriam  Fay,  a  friend  he  thinks, 

And  confidant  of  her  religious  life, 

Head  woman  of  the  school  where  Elenor 

Learned  chemistry,  materia  medica, 

Anatomy,  to  fit  her  for  the  work 

Of  nursing.     And  he  writes  this  Miriam  Fay 

And  Miriam  Fay  responds.     The  letter  comes 

Before  the  jury.     Here  is  what  she  wrote:  — 


MIRIAM  FAY'S  LETTER 

Elenor  Murray  asked  to  go  in  training 

And  came  to  see  me,  but  the  school  was  full, 

We  could  not  take  her.     Then  she  asked  to  stand 

Upon  a  list  and  wait,  I  put  her  off. 

She  came  back,  and  she  came  back,  till  at  last 

I  took  her  application;  then  she  came 

[94] 


MIRIAM  FAY'S  LETTER 

And  pushed  herself  and  asked  when  she  could  come, 

And  start  to  train.     At  last  I  laughed  and  said : 

"  Well,  come  to-morrow."     I  had  never  seen 

Such  eagerness,  persistence.     So  she  came. 

She  tried  to  make  a  friend  of  me,  perhaps 

Since  it  was  best,  I  being  in  command. 

But  anyway  she  wooed  me,  tried  to  please  me. 

And  spite  of  everything  I  grew  to  love  her, 

Though  I  distrusted  her.     But  yet  again 

I  had  belief  in  her  best  self,  though  doubting 

The  girl  somehow.     But  when  I  learned  the  girl 

Had  never  had  religious  discipline, 

Her  father  without  faith,  her  mother  too, 

Her  want  of  moral  sense,  I  understood. 

She  lacked  stability  of  spirit,  to-day 

She  would  be  one  thing,  something  else  the  next. 

Shot  up  in  fire,  which  failed  and  died  away 

And  I  began  to  see  her  fraternize 

With  girls  who  had  her  traits,  too  full  of  life 

To  be  what  they  should  be,  unstable  too, 

Much  like  herself. 

Not  long  before  she  came 
Into  the  training  school,  six  months,  perhaps, 
She  had  some  tragedy,  I  don't  know  what, 
Had  been  quite  ill  in  body  and  in  mind. 
When  she  went  into  training  I  could  see 
Her  purpose  to  wear  down  herself,  forget 
In  weariness  of  body,  something  lived. 
She  was  alert  and  dutiful  and  sunny, 

[95] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Kept  all  the  rules,  was  studious,  led  the  class, 
Excelled,  I  think,  in  studies  of  the  nerves, 
The  mind  grown  sick. 

As  we  grew  better  friends, 
More  intimate,  she  talked  about  religion, 
And  sacred  subjects,  asked  about  the  church. 
I  gave  her  books  to  read,  encouraged  her, 
Asked  her  to  make  her  peace  with  God,  and  set 
Her  feet  in  pious  paths.     At  last  she  said 
She  wished  to  be  baptized,  confirmed.     I  made 
The  plans  for  her,  she  was  baptized,  confirmed, 
Went  to  confessional,  and  seemed  renewed 
In  spirit  by  conversion.     For  at  once 
Her  zeal  was  like  a  flame  at  Pentecost, 
She  almost  took  the  veil,  but  missing  that, 
She  followed  out  the  discipline  to  the  letter, 
Kept  all  the  feast  days,  went  to  mass,  communion, 
Did  works  of  charity;  indeed,  I  think 
She  spent  her  spare  hours  all  in  all  at  sewing 
There  with  the  sisters  for  the  poor.     She  had, 
When  she  came  to  me,  jewelry  of  value, 
A  diamond  solitaire,  some  other  things. 
I  missed  them,  and  she  said  she  sold  them,  gave 
The  money  to  a  home  for  friendless  children. 
And  I  remember  when  she  said  her  father 
Had  wronged,  misvalued  her;  but  now  her  love, 
Made  more  abundant  by  the  love  of  Christ, 
Had  brought  her  to  forgiveness.     All  her  mood 
Was  of  humility  and  sacrifice. 

[96] 


MIRIAM  FAY'S  LETTER 

One  time  I  saw  her  at  the  convent,  sitting 

'Upon  a  foot-stool  at  the  gracious  feet 

Of  the  Mother  Superior,  sewing  for  the  poor; 

Hair  parted  in  the  middle,  curls  combed  out. 

Then  was  it  that  I  missed  her  jewelry. 

She  looked  just  like  a  poor  maid,  humble,  patient, 

Head  bent  above  her  sewing,  eyes  averted. 

The  room  was  silent  with  religious  thought. 

I  loved  her  then  and  pitied  her.     But  now 

I  think  she  had  that  in  her  which  at  times 

Made  her  a  flagellant,  at  other  times 

A  rioter.     She  used  the  church  to  drag 

Her  life  from  something,  took  it  for  a  bladder 

To  float  her  soul  when  it  was  perilled.     First, 

She  did  not  sell  her  jewelry;  this  ring, 

Too  brilliant  for  forgetting,  or  to  pass 

Unnoticed  when  she  wore  it,  showed  again 

Upon  her  finger  after  she  had  come 

Out  of  her  training,  was  a  graduate. 

She  had  a  faculty  for  getting  in 

Where  elegance  and  riches  were.     She  went 

Among  the  great  ones,  when  she  found  a  way, 

And  traveled  with  them  where  she  learned  the  life 

Of  notables,  aristocrats.     It  was  there, 

Or  when  from  duty  free  and  feasting,  gadding 

The  ring  showed  on  her  finger. 

In  two  years 

She  dropped  the  church.     New  friends  made  in  the  school, 
New  interests,  work  that  took  her  energies 

[97] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  this  religious  flare  had  cured  her  up 

Of  what  was  killing  her  when  first  I  knew  her. 

There  was  another  thing  that  drew  her  back 

To  flesh,  away  from  spirit:     She  saw  bodies, 

And  handled  bodies  as  a  nurse,  forgot 

The  body  is  the  spirit's  temple,  fell 

To  some  materialism  of  thought.     And  now 

Avoided  me,  was  much  away,  of  course, 

On  duty  here  and  there.     I  tried  to  hold  her, 

Protect  and  guide  her,  wrote  to  her  at  times 

To  make  confession,  take  communion.     She 

Ignored  these  letters.     But  I  heard  her  say 

The  body  was  as  natural  as  the  soul, 

And  just  as  natural  its  desires.     She  kept 

Out  of  the  wreck  of  faith  one  thing  alone, 

If  she  kept  that :     She  could  endure  to  hear 

God's  name  profaned,  but  would  not  stand  to  hear 

The  Savior's  spoken  in  irreverence. 

She  was  afraid,  no  doubt.     Or  to  be  just, 

The  tender  love  of  Christ,  his  sacrifice, 

Perhaps  had  won  her  wholly  —  let  it  go, 

I'll  say  that  much  for  her. 

Why  am  I  harsh? 

Because  I  saw  the  good  in  her  all  streaked 
With  so  much  evil,  evil  known  and  lived 
In  knowledge  of  it,  clung  to  none  the  less, 
Unstable  as  water,  how  could  she  succeed? 
Untruthful,  how  could  confidence  be  hers? 
I  sometimes  think  she  joined  the  church  to  mask 

[98] 


MIRIAM  FAY'S  LETTER 

A  secret  life,  renewed  forgiven  sins. 

After  she  cloaked  herself  with  piety. 

Perhaps,  at  least,  when  she  saw  what  to  do, 

And  how  to  do  it,  using  these  detours 

Of  piety  to  throw  us  off,  who  else 

Had  seen  what  doors  she  entered,  whence  she  came. 

She  wronged  the  church,  I  think,  made  it  a  screen 

To  stand  behind  for  kisses,  to  look  from 

Inviting  kisses.     Then,  as  I  have  said, 

She  took  materialism  from  her  work, 

And  so  renewed  her  sins.     She  drank,  I  think, 

And  smoked  and  feasted ;  but  as  for  the  rest, 

The  smoke  obscured  the  flame,  but  there  is  flame 

Or  fire  at  least  where  there  is  smoke. 

You  ask 

What  took  her  to  the  war?     Why  only  this: 
Adventure,  chance  of  marriage,  amorous  conquests  — 
The  girl  was  mad  for  men,  although  I  saw 
Her  smoke  obscured  the  flame,  I  never  saw  her 
Except  with  robins  far  too  tame  or  lame 
To  interest  her,  and  robins  prove  to  me 
The  hawk  is  somewhere,  waits  for  night  to  join 
His  playmate  when  the  robins  are  at  rest. 
You  see  the  girl  has  madness  in  her,  flies 
From  exaltation  up  to  ecstasy. 
Feeds  on  emotion,  never  has  enough. 
Tries  all  things,  states  of  spirit,  even  beliefs. 
Passes  from  lust   (I  think)    to  celibacy, 
Feasts,  fasts,  eats,  starves,  has  raptures  then  inflicts 

[99] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  whip  upon  her  back,  is  penitent, 

Then  proud,  is  humble,  then  is  arrogant, 

Looks  down  demurely,  stares  you  out  of  face, 

But  runs  the  world  around.     For  in  point  of  fact, 

She  traveled  much,  knew  cities  and  their  ways; 

And  when  I  used  to  see  her  at  the  convent 

So  meek,  clothed  like  a  sewing  maid,  at  once 

The  pictures  that  she  showed  me  of  herself 

At  seaside  places  or  on  boulevards, 

Her  beauty  clothed  in  linen  or  in  silk, 

Came  back  to  mind,  and  I  would  resurrect 

The  fragments  of  our  talks  in  which  I  saw 

How  she  knew  foods  and  drinks  and  restaurants, 

And  fashionable  shops.     This  girl  could  fool  the  elect 

She  fooled  me  for  a  time.     I  found  her  out. 

Did  she  aspire  ?     Perhaps,  if  you  believe 

It's  aspiration  to  seek  out  the  rich, 

And  ape  them.     Not  for  me.     Of  course  she  went 

To  get  adventure  in  the  war,  perhaps 

She  got  too  much.     But  as  to  waste  of  life, 

She  might  have  been  a  quiet,  noble  woman 

Keeping  her  place  in  life,  not  trying  to  rise 

Out  of  her  class  —  too  useless  —  in  her  class 

Making  herself  all  worthy,  serviceable. 

You'll  find  'twas  pride  that  slew  her.     Very  like 

She  found  a  rich  man,  tried  to  hold  him,  lost 

Her  honor  and  her  life  in  consequence. 


When  Merival  showed  this  letter  to  the  jury, 
Marion  the  juryman  spoke  up: 
[100] 


ARCHIBALD  LOWELL 

"  You  know  that  type  of  woman  —  saintly  hag! 
I  wouldn't  take  her  word  about  a  thing 
By  way  of  inference,  or  analysis. 
They  had  some  trouble,  she  and  Elenor 
You  may  be  sure."     And  Merival  replied : 
"  Take  it  for  what  it's  worth.     I  leave  you  now 
To  see  the  man  who  owns  the  Daily  Times. 
He's  turned  upon  our  inquest,  did  you  see 
The  jab  he  gives  me?     I  can  jab  as  well.'* 
So  Merival  went  out  and  took  with  him 
A  riffle  in  the  waters  of  circumstance 
Set  up  by  Elenor  Murray's  death  to  one 
Remote,  secure  in  greatness  —  to  the  man 
Who  ran  the  Times. 


ARCHIBALD  LOWELL 

Archibald  Lowell,  owner  of  the  Times 
Lived  six  months  of  the  year  at  Sunnyside, 
His  Gothic  castle  near  LeRoy,  so  named 
Because  no  sun  was  in  him,  it  may  be. 
His  wife  was  much  away  when  on  this  earth 
At  cures,  in  travel,  fighting  psychic  ills, 
Approaching  madness,  dying  nerves.     They  said 
Her  heart  was  starved  for  living  with  a  man 
So  cold  and  silent.     Thirty  years  she  lived 
Bound  to  this  man,  in  restless  agony, 
And  as  she  could  not  free  her  life  from  his, 
[101] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Nor  keep  it  living  with  him,  on  a  day 

She  stuck  a  gas  hose  in  her  mouth  and  drank 

Her  lungs  full  of  the  lethal  stuff  and  died. 

That  was  the  very  day  the  hunter  found 

Elenor  Murray's  body  near  the  river. 

A  servant  saw  this  Mrs.  Lowell  lying 

A  copy  of  the  Times  clutched  in  her  hand, 

Which  published  that  a  slip  of  paper  found 

In  Elenor  Murray's  pocket  had  these  words 

"  To  be  brave  and  not  to  flinch."     And  was  she  brave, 

And  nerved  to  end  it  by  these  words  of  Elenor? 

But  Archibald,  the  husband,  could  not  bear 

To  have  the  death  by  suicide  made  known. 

He  laid  the  body  out,  as  if  his  wife 

Ka'd  gone  to  bed  as  usual,  turned  a  jet 

And  left  it,  just  as  if  his  wife  had  failed 

To  fully  turn  it,  then  went  in  the  room; 

Then  called  the  servants,  did  not  know  that  one 

Had  seen  her  with  the  Times  clutched  in  her  hand. 

He  thought  the  matter  hidden.     Merival, 

All  occupied  with  Elenor  Murray's  death 

Gave  to  a  deputy  the  Lowell  inquest. 

But  later  what  this  servant  saw  was  told 

To  Merival. 

And  now  no  more  alone 

Than  when  his  wife  lived,  Lowell  passed  the  days 
At  Sunnyside,  as  he  had  done  for  years. 
He  sat  alone,  and  paced  the  rooms  alone, 
With  hands  behind  him  clasped,  in  fear  and  wonder 

[102] 


ARCHIBALD  LOWELL 

Of  life  and  what  life  is.     He  rode  about, 

And  viewed  his  blooded  cattle  on  the  hills. 

But  what  were  all  these  rooms  and  acres  to  him 

With  no  face  near  him  but  the  servants,  gardeners? 

Sometimes  he  wished  he  had  a  child  to  draw 

Upon    his   fabulous   income,    growing   more 

Since  all  his  life  was  centered  in  the  Times 

To  swell  its  revenues,  and  in  the  process 

His  spirit  was  more  fully  in  the  Times 

Than  in  his  body.     There  were  eyes  who  saw 

How  deftly  was  his  spirit  woven  in  it 

Until  it  was  a  scarf  to  bind  and  choke 

The  public  throat,  or  stifle  honest  thought 

Like  a  soft  pillow  offered  for  the  head, 

But  used  to  smother.     There  were  eyes  who  saw 

The  working  of  its  ways  emasculate, 

Its  tones  of  gray,  where  flame  had  been  the  thing, 

Its  timorous  steps,  while  spying  on  the  public, 

To  learn  the  public's  thought.     Its  cautious  pauses, 

With  foot  uplifted,  ears  pricked  up  to  hear 

A  step  fall,  twig  break.     Platitudes  in  progress  — 

With  sugar  coat  of  righteousness  and  order, 

Respectability. 

Did  the  public  make  it? 
Or  did  it  make  the  public,  that  it  fitted 
With  such  exactness  in  the  communal  life? 
Some  thousands  thought  it  fair  —  what  should  they  think 
When  it  played  neutral  in  the  matter  of  news 
To  both  sides  of  the  question,  though  at  last 

[103] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

It  turned  the  judge,  and  chose  the  better  side, 
Determined  from  the  first,  a  secret  plan, 
And  cunning  way  to  turn  the  public  scale? 
Some  thousands  liked  the  kind  of  news  it  printed 
Where  no  sensation  flourished  —  smallest  type 
That  fixed  attention  for  the  staring  eyes 
Needed  for  type  so  small.     But  others  knew 
It  led  the  people  by  its  fair  pretensions, 
And  used  them  in  the  end.     In  any  case 
This  editor  played  hand-ball  in  this  way : 
The  advertisers  tossed  the  ball,  the  readers 
Caught  it  and  tossed  it  to  the  advertisers: 
And  as  the  readers  multiplied,  the  columns 
Of  advertising  grew,  and  Lowell's  thought 
Was  how  to  play  the  one  against  the  other, 
And  fill  his  purse. 

It  was  an  ingrown  mind, 

And  .growing  more  ingrown  with  time.     Afraid 
Of  crowds  and  streets,  uncomfortable  in  clubs, 
No  warmth  in  hands  to  touch  his  fellows'  hands, 
Keeping  aloof  from  politicians,  loathing 
The  human  alderman  who  bails  the  thief; 
The  little  scamp  who  pares  a  little  profit, 
And  grafts  upon  a  branch  that  takes  no  harm. 
He  loved  the  active  spirit,  if  it  worked, 
And  feared  the  active  spirit,  if  it  played. 
This  Lowell  hid  himself  from  favor  seekers, 
Such  letters  filtered  to  him  through  a  sieve 
Of  secretaries.     If  he  had  a  friend, 
[104] 


ARCHIBALD  LOWELL 

Who  was  a  mind  to  him  as  well,  perhaps 
It  was  a  certain  lawyer,  but  who  knew? 
And  cursed  with  monophobia,  none  the  less 
This  Lowell  lived  alone  there  near  LeRoy, 
Surrounded  by  his  servants,  at  his  desk 
A  secretary  named  McGill,  who  took 
Such  letters,  editorials  as  he  spoke. 
His  life  was  nearly  waste.     A  peanut  stand 
Should  be  as  much  remembered  as  the  Times, 
When  fifty  years  are  passed. 

And  every  month 

The  circulation  manager  came  down 
To  tell  the  great  man  of  the  gain  or  loss 
The  paper  made  that  month  in  circulation, 
In  advertising,  chiefly.     Lowell  took 
The  audit  sheets  and  studied  them,  and  gave 
Steel  bullet  words  of  order  this  or  that. 
He  took  the  dividends,  and  put  them  —  where? 
God  knew  alone. 

He  went  to  church  sometimes, 
On  certain  Sundays,  for  a  pious  mother 
Had  reared  him  so,  and  sat  there  like  a  corpse, 
A  desiccated  soul,  so  dry  the  moss 
Upon  his  teeth  was  dry. 

And  on  a  day, 

His  wife  now  in  the  earth  a  week  or  so, 
Himself  not  well,  the  doctor  there  to  quiet 

[105] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

His  fears  of  sudden  death,  pains  in  the  chest, 
His  manager  had  come  —  was  made  to  wait 
Until  the  doctor  finished  —  brought  the  sheets 
Which  showed  the  advertising,  circulation. 
And  Lowell  studied  them  and  said  at  last: 
"  That  new  reporter  makes  the  Murray  inquest 
A  thing  of  interest,  does  the  public  like  it  ?  " 
To  which  the  manager:     "  It  sells  the  paper." 
And  then  the  great  man :     "It  has  served  its  use. 
Now  being  nearly  over,  print  these  words : 
The  Murray  inquest  shows  to  what  a  length 
Fantastic  wit  can  go,  it  should  be  stopped." 
An  editorial  later  might  be  well: 
Comment  upon  a  father  and  a  mother 
Invaded  in  their  privacy,  and  life 
In  intimate  relations  dragged  to  view 
To  sate  the  curious  eye. 

Next  day  the  Times 

Rebuked  the  coroner  in  these  words.     And  then 
Merival  sent  word :     "  I  come  to  see  you, 
Or  else  you  come  to  see  me,  or  by  process 
If  you  refuse."     And  so  the  editor 
Invited  Merival  to  Sunnyside 
To  talk  the  matter  out.     This  was  the  talk: 
First   Merival  went  over  all  the  ground 
In  mild  locution,  what  he  sought  to  do. 
How  as  departments  in  the  war  had  studied 
Disease  and  what  not,  tabulated  facts, 
He  wished  to  make  a  start  for  knowing  lives, 

[•06] 


ARCHIBALD  LOWELL 

And  finding  remedies  for  lives.     It's  true 

Not  much  might  be  accomplished,  also  true 

The  poet  and  the  novelist  gave  thought, 

Analysis  to  lives,  yet  who  could  tell 

What  system  might  grow  up  to  find  the  fault 

In  marriage  as  it  is,  in  rearing  children 

In  motherhood,  in  homes;  for  Merival 

By  way  of  wit  said  to  this  dullest  man: 

"  I  know  of  mother  and  of  home,  of  heaven 

I've  yet  to  learn."     Whereat  the  great  man  winced, 

To  hear  the  home  and  motherhood  so  slurred, 

And  briefly  said  the   Times  would   go   its  way 

To  serve  the  public  interests,  and  to  foster 

American  ideals  as  he  conceived  them. 

Then  Merival  who  knew  the  great  man's  nature, 

How  small  it  was  and  barren,  cold  and  dull, 

And  wedded  to  small  things,  to  gold,  and  fear 

Of  change,  and  knew  the  life  the  woman  lived, — 

These  seven  days  in  the  earth  —  with  such  a  man, 

Just  by  a  zephyr  of  intangible  thought 

Veered  round  the  talk  to  her,  to  voice  a  wonder 

About  the  jet  left  turned,  his  deputy 

Had  overlooked  a  hose  which  she  could  drink 

Gas  from  a  jet.     "  You  needn't  touch  the  jet. 

Just  leave  it  as  she  left  it  —  hide  the  hose, 

And  leave  the  gas  on,  put  the  woman  in  bed." 

"  This  deputy,"  said  Merival,  "  was  slack 

And  let  a  verdict  pass  of  accident." 

"  Oh  yes  "  said  Merival,  "  your  servant  told 

About  the  hose,  the  Times  clutched  in  her  hand. 

[107] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  may  I  test  this  jet,  while  I  am  here? 
Go  up  to  see  and  test  it  ?  " 

Whereupon 

The  great  man  with  wide  eyes  stared  in  the  eyes 
Of  Merival,  was  speechless  for  a  moment, 
Not  knowing  what  to  say,  while  Merival 
Read  something  in  his  eyes,  saw  in  his  eyes 
The  secret  beat  to  cover,  saw  the  man 
Turn  head  away  which  shook  a  little,  saw 
His  chest  expand  for  breath,  and  heard  at  last 
The  editor  in  four  steel  bullet  words, 
"It  is  not  necessary." 

Merival 

Had  trapped  the  solitary  fox  —  arose 
And  going  said:  "  If  it  was  suicide 
The  inquest  must  be  changed." 

The  editor 

Looked  through  the  window  at  the  coroner 
Walking  the  gravel  walk,  and  saw  his  hand 
Unlatch  the  iron  gate,  and  saw  him  pass 
From  view  behind  the  trees. 

Then  horror  rose 

Within  his  brain,  a  nameless  horror  took 
The  heart  of  him,  for  fear  this  coroner 
Would  dig  this  secret  up,  and  show  the  world 
The  dead  face  of  the  woman  self-destroyed, 
[108] 


ARCHIBALD  LOWELL 

And  of  the  talk,  which  would  not  come  to  him, 
To  poison  air  he  breathed  no  less,  of  why 
This  woman  took  her  life;  if  for  ill  health 
Then  why  ill  health  ?     O,  well  he  knew  at  heart 
What  he  had  done  to  break  her,  starve  her  life. 
And  now  accused  himself  too  much  for  words, 
Ways,  temperament  of  him  that  murdered  her, 
For  lovelessness,  and  for  deliberate  hands 
That  pushed  her  off  and  down. 

He  rode  that  day 

To  see  his  cattle,  overlook  the  work, 
But  when  night  came  with  silence  and  the  cry 
Of  night-hawks,  and  the  elegy  of  leaves 
Beneath  the  stars  that  looked  so  cold  at  him 
As  he  turned  seeking  sleep,  the  dreaded  pain 
Grew  stronger  in  his  breast.     Dawn  came  at  last 
And  then  the  stir  and  voices  of  the  maids. 
And  after  breakfast  in  the  carven  room 
Archibald  Lowell  standing  by  the  mantel 
In  his  great  library,  felt  sudden  pain; 
Saw  sudden  darkness,  nothing  saw  at  once, 
Lying  upon  the  marble  of  the  hearth ; 
His  great  head  cut  which  struck  the  post  of  brass 
In   the  hearth's   railing  —  only   a   little   blood ! 
Archibald  Lowell  being  dead  at  last; 
The  Times  left  to  the  holders  of  the  stock 
Who  kept  his  policy,  and  kept  the  Times 
As  if  the  great  man  lived. 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And   Merival 

Taking  the  doctor's  word  that  death  was  caused 
By  angina  pectoris,  let  it  drop. 
And  went  his  way  with  Elenor  Murray's  case. 

So  Lowell's  dead  and  buried;  had  to  die, 

But  not  through  Elenor  Murray.     That's  the  Fate 

That  laughs  at  greatness,  little  things  that  sneak 

From  alien  neighborhoods  of  life  and  kill.    , 

And  Lowell  leaves  a  will,  to  which  a  boy  — 

Who  sold  the  Times  once,  afterward  the  Star  — 

Is  alien  as  this  Elenor  to  the  man 

Who  owned  the  Times.     But  still  is  brought  in  touch 

With  Lowell's  will,  because  this  Lowell  died 

Before  he  died.     And  Merival  learns  the  facts 

And  brings  them  to  the  jury  in  these  words:  — 


WIDOW  FORTELKA 

Marie  Fortelka,  widow,  mother  of  Josef, 
Now  seventeen,  an  invalid  at  home 
In  a  house,  in  Halstead  Street,  his  running  side 
Aching  with  broken  ribs,  read  in  the  Times 
Of  Lowell's  death  the  editor,  dressed  herself 
To  call  on  William  Rummler,  legal  mind 
For  Lowell  and  the  Times. 

[no] 


WIDOW  FORTELKA 

It  was  a  day 

When  fog  hung  over  the  city,  and  she  thought 
Of  fogs  in  Germany  whence  she  came,  and  thought 
Of  hard  conditions  there  when  she  was  young. 
Then  as  her  boy,  this  Josef,  coughed,  she  looked 
And  felt  a  pang  at  heart,  a  rise  of  wrath, 
And  heard  him  moan  for  broken  ribs  and  lungs 
That  had  been  bruised  or  mashed.     America, 
Oh  yes,  America,  she  said  to  self, 
How  is  it  different  from  the  land  I  left? 
And  then  her  husband's  memory  came  to  mind: 
How  he  had  fled  his  country  to  be  free, 
And  come  to  Philadelphia,  with  the  thrill 
Of  new  life  found,  looked  at  the  famous  Hall 
Which  gave  the  Declaration,  cried  and  laughed 
And  said :     "  The  country's  free,  and  I  am  here, 
I  am  free  now,  a  man,  no  more  a  slave." 
What  did  he  find?     A  job,  but  prices  high. 
Wages  decreased  in  winter,  then  a  strike. 
He  joined  the  union,  found  himself  in  jail 
For  passing  hand-bills  which  announced  the  strike, 
And  asked  the  public  to  take  note,  and  punish 
The  corporation,  not  to  trade  with  it, 
For  its  injustice  toward  the  laborers. 
And  in  the  court  he  heard  the  judge  decide: 
"  Free  speech  cannot  be  used  to  gain  the  ends 
Of  ruin  by  conspiracy  like  this 
Against  a  business.     Men  from  foreign  lands, 
Of  despot  rule  and  poverty,  who  come 
For  liberty  and  means  of  life  among  us 
[in] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Must  learn  that  liberty  is  ordered  liberty, 
And  is  not  license,  freedom  to  commit 
Injury  to  another." 

So  in  jail 

He  lay  his  thirty  days  out,  went  to  work 
Where  he  could  find  it,  found  the  union  smashed, 
Himself   compelled   to  take  what  job  he  could, 
What  wages  he  was  offered.     And  his  children 
Kept  coming  year  by  year  till  there  were  eight, 
And  Josef  was  but  ten.     And  then  he  died 
And  left  this  helpless  family,  and  the  boy 
Sold  papers  on  the  street,  ten  years  of  age, 
The  widow  washed. 

And  first  he  sold  the  Times 
And  helped  to  spread  the  doctrines  of  the  Times 
Of  ordered  liberty  and  epicene 
Reforms  of  this  or  that.     But  when  the  Star 
With  millions  back  of  it  broke  in  the  field 
He  changed  and  sold  the  Star,  too  bad  for  him  — 
Discovered  something: 

Josef  did  not  know 

The  corners  of  the  street  are  free  to  all, 
Or  free  to  none,  where  newsboys  stood  and  sold, 
And  kept  their  stands,  or  rather  where  the  powers 
That  kept  the  great  conspiracy  of  the  press 
Controlled  the  stands,  and  to  prevent  the  Star 
From  gaining  foot-hold.     Not  upon  this  corner 


WIDOW  FORTELKA 

Nor  on  that  corner,  any  corner  in  short 

Shall  newsboys  sell  the  Star.     But  Josef  felt, 

Being  a  boy,  indifferent  to  the  rules, 

Well  founded,  true  or  false,  that  all  the  corners 

Were  free  to  all,  and  for  his  daring,  strength 

Had  been  selected,  picked  to  sell  the  Star, 

And  break  the  ground,  gain  place  upon  the  stands. 

He  had  been  warned  from  corners,  chased  and  boxed 

By  heavy  fists  from  corners  more  than  once 

Before  the  day  they  felled  him.     On  that  day 

A  monster  bully,  once  a  pugilist, 

Came  on  him  selling  the  Star  and  knocked  him  down, 

Kicked  in  his  ribs  and  broke  a  leg  and  cracked 

His  little  skull. 

And  so  they  took  him  home 
To  Widow  Fortelka  and  the  sisters,  brothers, 
Whose  bread  he  earned.     And  there  he  lay  and  moaned, 
And  when  he  sat  up  had  a  little  cough, 
Was  short  of  breath. 

And  on  this  foggy  day 
When  Widow  Fortelka  reads  in  the  Times 
That  Lowell,  the  editor,  is  dead,  he  sits 
With  feet  wrapped  in  a  quilt  and  gets  his  breath 
With  open  mouth,  his  face  is  brightly  flushed  ; 
A  fetid  sweetness  fills  the  air  of  the  room 
That  from  his  open  mouth  comes.     Josef  lingers 
A  few  weeks  yet  —  he  has  tuberculosis. 
And  so  his  mother  looks  at  him,  resolves 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

To  call  this  day  on  William  Rummler,  see 

If  Lowell's  death  has  changed  the  state  of  things; 

And  if  the  legal  mind  will  not  relent 

Now  that  the  mind  that  fed  it  lies  in  death. 

It's  true  enough,  she  thinks,  I  was  dismissed, 

And  sent  away  for  good,  but  never  mind. 

It  can't  be  true  this  pugilist  went  farther 

Than  the  authority  of  his  hiring,  that's 

The  talk  this  lawyer  gave  her,  used  a  word ' 

She  could  not  keep  in  mind  —  the  lawyer  said 

Respondeat  superior  in  this  case 

Was  not  in  point  —  and  if  it  could  be  proved 

This  pugilist  was  hired  by  the  Times, 

No  one  could  prove  the  Times  had  hired  him 

To  beat  a  boy,  commit  a  crime.     Well,  then 

"  What  was  he  hired  for?  "  the  widow  asked. 

And  then  she  talked  with  newsboys,  and  they  said 

The  papers  had  their  sluggers,  all  of  them, 

Even  the  Star,  and  that  was  just  a  move 

In  getting  delation,  keeping  it. 

And  all  these  sluggers  watched  the  stands  and  drove 

The  newsboys  selling  Stars  away. 

No  matter, 

She  could  not  argue  with  this  lawyer  Rummler, 
Who  said :     "  You  must  excuse  me,  go  away, 
I'm  sorry,  but  there's  nothing  I  can  do." 

Now  Widow  Fortelka  had  never  heard 
Of  Elenor  Murray,  had  not  read  a  line 

[114] 


WIDOW  FORTELKA 

Of  Elenor  Murray's  death  beside  the  river. 

She  was  as  ignorant  of  the  interview 

Between  the  coroner  and  this  editor 

Who  died  next  morning  fearing  Merival 

Would  dig  up  Mrs.  Lowell  and  expose 

Her  suicide,  as  conferences  of  spirits 

Directing  matters  in  another  world. 

Her  thought  was  moulded  no  less  by  the  riffles 

That  spread  from  Elenor  Murray  and  her  death. 

And  she  resolved  to  see  this  lawyer  Rummler, 

And  try  again  to  get  a  settlement 

To  help  her  dying  boy.     And  so  she  went. 

That  morning  Rummler  coming  into  town 

Had  met  a  cynic  friend  upon  the  train 

Who  used  his  tongue  as  freely  as  his  mood 

Moved  him  to  use  it.     So  he  said  to  Rummler: 

"I  see  your  client  died  —  a  hell  of  a  life 

That  fellow  lived,  a  critic  in  our  midst 

Both  hated  and  caressed.     And  I  suppose 

You  drew  his  will  and  know  it,  I  will  bet, 

If  he  left  anything  to  charity, 

Or  to  the  city,  it  is  some  narcotic 

To  keep  things  as  they  are,  the  ailing  body 

To  dull  and  bring  forgetfulness  of  pain. 

He  was  a  fine  albino  of  the  soul, 

No  pigment  in  his  genesis  to  give 

Color  to  hair  or  eyes,  he  had  no  gonads." 

And  William  Rummler  laughed  and  said,  "  You'll  see 

What  Lowell  did  when  I  probate  the  will." 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Then  William  Rummler  thought  that  very  moment 

Of  plans  whereby  his  legal  mind  could  thrive 

Upon  the  building  of  the  big  hotel 

To  Lowell's  memory,  for  perpetual  use 

Of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.,  the  seminary,  too, 

In  Moody's  memory  for  an  orthodox 

Instruction  in  the  bible. 

With  such  things. 

In  mind,  this  William  Rummler  opened  the  door, 
And  stepped  into  his  office,  got  a  shock 
From  seeing  Widow  Fortelka  on  the  bench, 
Where  clients  waited,  waiting  there  for  him. 
She  rose  and  greeted  him,  and  William  Rummler 
Who  in  a  stronger  moment  might  have  said: 
"  You  must  excuse  me,  I  have  told  you,  madam, 
I  can  do  nothing  for  you,"  let  her  follow 
Into  his  private  office  and  sit  down 
And  there  renew  her  suit. 

She  said  to  him: 

"  My  boy  is  dying  now,  I  think  his  ribs 
Were  driven  in  his  lungs  and  punctured  them. 
He  coughs  the  worst  stuff  up  you  ever  saw. 
And  has  an  awful  fever,  sweats  his  clothes 
Right  through,  is  breathless,  cannot  live  a  month. 
And  I  know  you  can  help  me.     Mr.  Lowell, 
So  you  told  me,  refused  a  settlement, 
Because  this  pugilist  was  never  hired 
To  beat  my  boy,  or  any  boy ;  for  fear 
[116] 


WIDOW  FORTELKA 

It  would  be  an  admission,  and  be  talked  of, 

And  lead  another  to  demand  some  money. 

But  now  he's  dead,  and  surely  you  are  free 

To  help  me  some,  so  that  this  month  or  two, 

While  my  boy  Joe  is  dying  he  can  have 

What  milk  he  wants  and  food,  and  when  he  dies, 

A  decent  coffin,  burial.     Then  perhaps 

There  will  be  something  left  to  help  me  with  — 

I  wash  to  feed  the  children,  as  you  know." 

And  William  Rummler  looked  at  her  and  thought 
For  one  brief  moment  with  his  lawyer  mind 
About  this  horror,  while  the  widow  wept, 
And  as  she  wept  a  culprit  mood  was  his 
For  thinking  of  the  truth,  for  well  he  knew 
This  slugger  had  been  hired  for  such  deeds, 
And  here  was  one  result.     And  in  his  pain 
The  cynic  words  his  friend  had  said  to  him 
Upon  the  train  began  to  stir,  and  then 
He  felt  a  rush  of  feeling,  blood,  and  thought 
Of  clause  thirteen  in  Lowell's  will,  which  gave 
The  trustees  power,  and  he  was  chief  trustee, 
To  give  some  worthy  charity  once  a  year, 
Not  to  exceed  a  thousand  dollars.     So 
He  thought  to  self,  "  This  is  a  charity. 
I  will  advance  the  money,  get  it  back 
As  soon  as  I  probate  the  will." 

At   last 
He  broke  this  moment's  musing  and  spoke  up: 

[117] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

"  Your  case  appeals  to  me.     You  may  step  out, 

And  wait  till  I  prepare  the  papers,  then 

I'll  have  a  check  made  for  a  thousand  dollars." 

Widow  Fortelka  rose  up  and  took 

The  crucifix  she  wore  and  kissed  it,  wept 

And  left  the  room. 


Now  here's  the  case  of  Percy  Ferguson   , 

You'd  think  his  life  was  safe  from  Elenor  Murray. 

No  preacher  ever  ran  a  prettier  boat 

Than  Percy  Ferguson,  all  painted  white 

With  polished  railings,  flying  at  the  fore 

The  red  and  white  and  blue.     Such  little  waves 

Set  dancing  by  the  death  of  Elenor  Murray 

To  sink  so  fine  a  boat,  and  leave  the  Reverend 

To  swim  to  shore!  he  couldn't  walk  the  waves! 


REV.  PERCY  FERGUSON 

The  Rev.  Percy  Ferguson,  patrician 
Vicar  of   Christ,   companion   of   the  strong, 
And  member  of  the  inner  shrine,  where  men 
Observe  the  rituals  of  the  golden  calf; 
A  dilettante,  and  writer  for  the  press 
Upon  such  themes  as  optimism,  order, 
Obedience,  beauty,  law,  while  Elenor  Murray's 
[118] 


REV.  PERCY  FERGUSON 

Life  was  being  weighed  by  Merival 

Preached  in  disparagement  of  Merival 

Upon  a  fatal  Sunday,  as  it  chanced, 

Too  near  to  doom's  day  for  the  clergyman. 

For,  as  the  word  had  gone  about  that  waste 

In  lives  preoccupied  this  Merival, 

And  many  talked  of  waste,  and  spoke  a  life 

Where  waste  had  been  in  whole  or  part  —  the  pulpit 

Should  take  a  hand,  thought  Ferguson.     And  so 

The  Reverend  Percy  Ferguson  preached  thus 

To  a  great  audience  and  fashionable: 

"  The  hour's  need  is  a  firmer  faith  in  Christ, 

A  closer  hold  on  God,  belief  again 

In  sin's  reality;  the  age's  vice 

Is  laughter  over  sin,  the  attitude 

That  sin  is  not!  "     And  then  to  prove  that  sin 

Is  something  real,  he  spoke  of  money  sins 

That  bring  the  money  panics,  of  the  beauty 

That  lust  corrupts,  wound  up  with  Athen's  story, 

Which  sin  decayed.     And  touching  on  this  waste, 

Which  was  the  current  talk,  what  is  this  waste 

Except  a  sin  in  life,  the  moral  law 

Transgressed,  God  mocked,  the  order  of  man's  life, 

And  God's  will  disobeyed?     Show  me  a  life 

That  lives  through  Christ  and  none  shall  find  a  waste." 

This  clergyman  some  fifteen  years  before 

Went  on  a  hunt  for  Alma  Bell,  who  taught 

The  art  department  of  the  school,  and  found 

Enough  to  scare  the  school  directors  that 

She  burned  with  lawless  love  for  Elenor  Murray. 

[119] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  made  it  seem  the  teacher's  reprimand 

In  school  of  Elenor  Murray  for  her  ways 

Of  strolling,  riding  with  young  men  at  night, 

Was  moved  by  jealousy  of  Elenor  Murray, 

Being  herself  in  love  with  Elenor  Murray. 

This  clergyman  laid  what  he  found  before 

The  school  directors,  Alma  Bell  was  sent 

Out  of  the  school  her  way,  and  disappeared.  .  .  . 

But  now,  though  fifteen  years  had  passed,  the  story 

Of  Alma  Bell  and  Elenor  Murray  crept 

Like  poisonous  mist,  scarce  seen,  around  LeRoy. 

It  had  been  so  always.     And  all  these  years 

No  one  would  touch  or  talk  in  open  words 

The  loathsome  matter,  since  girls  grown  to  women, 

And  married  in  the  town  might  have  their  names 

Relinked  to  Alma  Bell's.     And  was  it  true 

That  Elenor  Murray  strayed  as  a  young  girl 

In  those  far  days  of  strolls  and  buggy   rides? 

But  after  Percy  Ferguson  had  thundered 
Against  the  inquest,  Warren   Henderson, 
A  banker  of  the  city,  who  had  dealt 
In  paper  of  the  clergyman,  and  knew 
The  clergyman  had  interests  near  Victoria, 
Was  playing  at  the  money  game,  and  knew 
He  tottered  on  the  brink,  and  held  to  hands 
That  feared  to  hold  him  longer  —  Henderson, 
A  wise  man,  cynical,  contemptuous 
Of  frocks  so  sure  of  ways  to  avoid  the  waste, 
So  unforgiving  of  the  tangled  moods 
[120] 


REV.  PERCY  FERGUSON 

And  baffled  eyes  of  men;  contemptuous 
Of  frocks  so  avid  for  the  downy  beds, 
Place,  honors,  money,  admiration,  praise, 
Much  wished  to  see  the  clergyman  come  down 
And  lay  his  life  beside  the  other  sinners. 
But  more  he  knew,  admired  this  Alma  Bell, 
Did  not  believe  she  burned  with  guilty  love 
For  Elenor  Murray,  thought  the  moral  hunt 
Or  Alma  Bell  had  made  a  waste  of  life, 
As  ignorance  might  pluck  a  flower  for  thinking 
It  was  a  weed;  on  Elenor  Murray  too 
Had  brought  a  waste,  by  scenting  up  her  life 
With  something  faint  but  ineradicable. 
And  Warren  Henderson  would  have  revenge, 
And  waited  till  old  Jacob  Bangs  should  fix 
His  name  to  paper  once  again  of  Ferguson's 
To  tell  old  Jacob  Bangs  he  should  be  wary, 
Since  banks  and  agencies  were  tremulous 
With  hints  of  failure  at  Victoria. 

So  meeting  Jacob  Bangs  the  banker  told  him 
What  things  were  bruited,  and  warned  the  man 
To  fix  his  name  no  more  to  Ferguson's  paper. 
It  was  the  very  day  the  cleryman 
Sought  Jacob  Bangs  to  get  his  signature 
Upon  a  note  for  money  at  the  bank. 
And  Jacob  Bangs  was  silent  and  evasive, 
Demurred  a  little  and  refused  at  last. 
Which  sent  the  anxious  clergyman  adrift 
To  look  for  other  help.     He  looked  and  looked, 
[MI] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  found  no  other  help.     Associates 
Depending  more  on  men  than  God,  fell  down, 
And  in  a  day  the  bubble  burst.     The  Times 
Had  columns  of  the  story. 

In  a  week, 

At  Sunday  service  Percy  Ferguson 
Stood  in  the  pulpit  to  confess  his  sin, 
The  Murray  jury  sat  and  fed  their  joy  , 
For  hearing  Ferguson  confess  his  sin. 
This  is  the  way  he  did  it: 

"  First,  my  friends, 
I  do  not  say  I  have  betrayed  the  trust 
My  friends  have  given  me.     Some  years  ago 
I  thought  to  make  provision  for  my  wife, 
I  wished  to  start  some  certain  young  men  right. 
I  had  another  plan  I  can't  disclose, 
Not  selfish,  you'll  believe  me.     So  I  took 
My  savings  made  as  lecturer  and  writer 
And  put  them  in  this  venture.     I'm  ashamed 
To  say  how  great  those  savings  were,  in  view 
Of  what  the  poor  earn,  those  who  work  with  hands! 
Ashamed  too,  when  I  think  these  savings  grew 
Because  I  spoke  the  things  the  rich  desired. 
And    squared   my   words   with   what   the   strong   would 

have  — 

Therein  Christ  was  betrayed.     The  end  has  come. 
I  too  have  been  betrayed,  my  confidence 
Wronged  by  my  fellows  in  the  enterprise. 

[122] 


REV.  PERCY  FERGUSON 

I  hope  to  pay  my  debts.     Hard  poverty 

Has  come  to  me  to  bring  me  back  to  Christ." 

"  But  listen  now:  These  years  I  lived  perturbed, 

Lest  this  life  which  I  grew  into  would  mould 

Young  men  and  ministers,  lead  them  astray 

To  public  life,  sensation,  lecture  platforms, 

Prosperity,   away  from  Christ-like  service, 

Obscure  and  gentle.     To  those  souls  I  owe 

My  heart's  confession :  I  have  loved  my  books 

More  than  the  poor,  position  more  than  service, 

Office  and  honor  over  love  of  men; 

Lived  thus  when  all  my  strength  belonged  to  thought, 

To  work  for  schools,  the  sick,  the  poor,  the  friendless, 

To  boys  and  girls  with  hungry  minds.     My  friends, 

Here  I  abase  my  soul  before  God's  throne, 

And  ask  forgiveness  for  the  pious  zeal 

With  which  I  smote  the  soul  of  Alma  Bell, 

And  smudged  the  robe  of  Elenor  Murray.     God, 

Thou,  who  has  taken  Elenor  Murray  home, 

After  great  service  in  the  war,  O  grant 

Thy  servant  yet  to  kneel  before  the  soul 

Of  Elenor  Murray.     For  who  am  I  to  judge? 

What  was  I  then  to  judge?  who  coveted  honors, 

When  solitude,  where  I  might  dwell  apart, 

And  listen  to  the  voice  of  God  was  mine, 

By  calling  and  for  seeking.     I  have  broken 

The  oath  I  took  to  take  no  purse  or  scrip. 

I  have  loved  money,  even  while  I  knew 

No  servant  of  Christ  can  work  for  Christ  and  strive 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

For  money.     And  if  anywhere  there  be 

A  noble  boy  who  would  become  a  minister, 

Who  has  heard  me,  or  read  my  books,  and  grown 

Thereby  to  cherish  secular  ideas 

Of  Christ's  work  in  the  world,  to  him  I  say: 

Repent  the  thought,  reject  me;  there  are  men 

And  women  missionaries,  here,  abroad, 

And  nameless  workers  in  poor  settlements 

Whose  latchets  to  stoop  down  and  to  unloose 

I  am  unworthy." 

"  Gift  of  life  too  short! 
O,  beautiful  gift  of  God,  too  brief  at  best, 
For  all  a  man  can  do,  how  have  I  wasted 
This  precious  gift!     How  wasted  it  in  pride, 
In  seeking  out  the  powerful,  the  great, 
The  hands  with  honors,  gold  to  give  —  when  nothing 
Is  profitable  to  a  servant  of  the  Christ 
Except  to  shepherd  Christ's  poor.     O,  young  men, 
Interpret  not  your  ministry  in  terms 
Of  intellect  alone,  forefront  the  heart, 
That  at  the  end  of  life  you  may  look  up 
And  say  to  God :  Behind  these  are  the  sheep 
Thou  gavest  me,  and  not  a  one  is  lost." 

"  As  to  my  enemies,  for  enemies 
A  clergyman  must  have  whose  fault  is  mine, 
Plato  would  have  us  harden  hearts  to  sorrow. 
And  Zeno  roofs  of  slate  for  souls  to  slide 
The  storm  of  evil  —  Christ  in  sorrow  did 

[124] 


REV.  PERCY  FERGUSON 

For  evil  good.     For  me,  my  prayer  is  this, 
My  faith  as  well,  that  I  may  be  perfected 
Through  suffering." 

That  ended  the  confession. 

Then  "  Love  Divine,  All  Love  Excelling  "  sounded. 
The  congregation  rose,  and  some  went  up 
To  take  the  pastor's  hand,  but  others  left 
To  think  the  matter  over. 

For  some  said: 

"  He  married  fortunate."     And  others  said : 
"  We  know  through  Jacob  Bangs  he  has  investments 
In  wheat  lands,  what's  the  truth?     In  any  case 
What  avarice  is  this  that  made  him  anxious 
About  the  comfort  of  his  wife  and  family? 
The  thing  won't  work.     He's  only  middle  way 
In  solving  his  soul's  problem.     This  confession 
Is  just  a  poor  beginning."     Others  said: 
"  He  drove  out  Alma  Bell,  let's  drive  him  out." 
And  others  said:  "  you  note  we  never  heard 
About  this  speculation  till  it  failed, 
And  he  was  brought  to  grief.     If  it  had  prospered 
The  man  had  never  told,  what  do  you  think?" 
But  in  a  year  as  health  failed,  Ferguson 
Took  leave  of  absence,  and  the  silence  of  life 
Which  closes  over  men,  however  noisy 
With  sermons,  lectures,  covered  him.     His  riffle 
Died  out  in  distant  waters. 

[125] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

There  was  a  Doctor  Burke  lived  at  LeRoy, 

Neurologist  and  student.     On  a  night 

When  Merival  had  the  jury  at  his  house, 

Llewellyn  George  was  telling  of  his  travels 

In  China  and  Japan,  had  mutual  friends 

With  Franklin  Hollister,  the  cousin  of  Elenor, 

And  son  of  dead  Corinne,  who  hid  her  letters 

Under  the  eaves.     The  talk  went  wide  and  far. 

For  David  Borrow,  sunny  pessimist, 

Thrust  logic  words  at  Maiworm,  the  juryman; 

And  said  our  life  was  bad,  and  must  be  so, 

While  Maiworm  trusted  God,  said  life  was  good. 

And  Winthrop  Marion  let  play  his  wit, 

The  riches  of  his  reading  over  all. 

Thus  as  they  talked  this  Doctor  Burke  came  in. 

"  You'll  pardon  this  intrusion,  I'll  go  on 

If  this  is  secret  business.     Let  me  say 

This  inquest  holds  my  interest  and  I've  come 

To  tell  of  Elenor's  ancestry."     Thus  he  spoke. 

"  There'll  be  another  time  if  I  must  go." 

And  Merival  spoke  up  and  said:  "  why  stay 

And  tell  us  what  you  know,  or  think,"  and  so 

The  coroner  and  jury  sat  and  heard:  — 


DR.  BURKE 

You've  heard  of  potters'  wheels  and  potters'  hands. 

I  had  a  dream  that  told  the  human  tale 

As  well  as  potters'  wheels  or  potters'  hands. 


DR.  BURKE 

I  saw  a  great  hand  slopping  plasmic  jelly 
Around  the  low  sides  of  a  giant  bowl. 
A  drop  would  fly  upon  the  giant  table, 
And  quick  the  drop  would  twist  up  into  form, 
Become  homonculus  and  wave  its  hands, 
Brandish  a  little  pistol,  shoot  a  creature, 
Upspringing  from  another  drop  of  plasm, 
Slopped  on  the  giant  table.     Other  drops, 
Flying  as  water  from  a  grinding  stone, 
Out  of  the  giant  bowl,  took  little  crowns 
And  put  them  on  their  heads  and  mounted  thrones, 
And  lorded  little  armies.     Some  became 
Half-drooped  and  sickly  things,  like  poisoned  flies. 
And  others  stood  on  lighted  faggots,  others 
Fed  and  commanded,  others  served  and  starved, 
But  many  joined  the  throng  of  animate  drops, 
And  hurried  on  the  phantom  quest. 

You  see, 

Whether  you  call  it  potter's  hand  or  hand 
That  stirs,  to  no  end,  jelly  in  the  bowl, 
You  have  the  force  outside  and  not  inside. 
Invest  it  with  a  malice,  wanton  humor, 
Which  likes  to  see  the  plasmic  jelly  slop, 
And  rain  in  drops  upon  the  giant  table, 
And  does  not  care  what  happens  in  the  world, 
That  giant  table. 

All  such  dreams  are  wrong, 
My  dream  is  wrong,  my  waking  thought  is  right. 

[127] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Man  can  subdue  the  giant  hand  that  stirs, 
Or  turns  the  wheel,  and  so  these  visions  err. 
For  as  this  farmer,  lately  come  to  town, 
Picks  out  the  finest  corn  seeds,  and  so  crops 
A  finer  corn,  let's  look  to  human  seed, 
And  raise  a  purer  stock;  let's  learn  of  him, 
Who  does  not  put  defective  grains  aside 
For  planting  in  the  spring,  but  puts  aside 
The  best  for  planting.     For  I'd  like  to  see 
As  much  care  taken  with  the  human  stock 
As  men  now  take  of  corn,  race-horses,  hogs. 
You,  Coroner  Merival  are  right,  I  think. 
If  we  conserve  our  forests,  waterways, 
Why  not  the  stream  of  human  life,  which  wastes 
Because  its  source  is  wasted,  fouled. 

Perhaps 

Our  coroner  has  started  something  good, 
And  brought  to  public  mind  what  might  result 
If  every  man  kept  record  of  the  traits 
Known  in  his  family  for  the  future  use 
Of  those  to  come  in  choosing  mates. 

Behold, 

Your  moralists  and  churchmen  with  your  rules 
Brought  down  from  Palestine,  which  says  that  life 
Though  tainted,  maddened,  must  not  be  controlled, 
Diverted,  headed  off,  while  life  in  corn, 
And  life  in  hogs,  that  feed  the  life  of  man 
Should  be  made  better  for  the  life  of  man  — 

[128] 


DR.  BURKE 

Behold,  I  say,  some  hundred  millions  spent 

On  paupers,  epileptics,  deaf  and  blind; 

On  feeble  minded,  invalids,  the  insane  — 

Behold,  I  say,  this  cost  in  gold  alone, 

Leave  for  the  time  the  tragedy  of  souls, 

Who  suffer  or  must  see  such  suffering, 

And  then  turn  back  to  what?     The  hand  that  stirs, 

The  potter's  hand  ?     Why,  no  —  the  marriage  counter 

Where  this  same  state  in  Christian  charity 

Spending  its  millions,  lets  the  fault  begin, 

And  says  to  epileptics  and  what  not :  — 

"  Go  breed  your  kind,  for  Jesus  came  to  earth, 

And  we  will  house  and  feed  your  progeny, 

Or  hang,  incarcerate  your  murderous  spawn, 

As  it  may  happen." 

And  all  the  time  we  know 
As  small  grains  fruit  in  small  grains,  even  man 
In  fifty  matters  of  pathology 
Transmits  what's  in  him,  blindness,  imbecility, 
Hysteria,  susceptibilities 
To  cancer  and  tuberculosis.     Also 
The  soil  that  sprouts  the  giant  weed  of  madness  — 
There's  soil  which  will  not  sprout  them,  occupied 
Too  full  by  blossoms,  healthy  trees. 

We  know 

Such  things  as  these  —  Well,  I  would  sterilize, 
Or  segregate  these  shriveled  seeds  and  keep 
The  soil  of  life  for  seeds  select,  and  take 

[129] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  church  and  Jesus,  if  he's  in  the  way, 

And  say:  "You  stand  aside,  and  let  me  raise 

A  better  and  a  better  breed  of  men." 

Quit,  shut  your  sniveling  charities;  have  mercy 

Not  on  these  paupers,  imbeciles,  diseased  ones, 

But  on  the  progeny  you  let  them  breed. 

And  thereby  sponge  the  greatest  waste  away, 

And  source  of  life's  immeasurable  tragedies. 

Avaunt  you  potter  hands  and  potter  wheels ! 

God  is  within  us,  not  without  us,  we 

Are  given  souls  to  know  and  see  and  guide 

Ourselves  and  those  to  come,  souls  that  compute 

The  calculus  of  beauties,  talents,  traits, 

And  show  us  that  the  good  in  seed  strives  on 

To  master  stocks;  that  even  poisoned  blood, 

And  minds  in  chemic  turmoils,  mixed  with  blood 

And  minds  in  harmony,  work  clean  at  last  — 

Else  how  may  normal  man  to-day  be  such 

With  some  eight  billion  ancestors  behind, 

And  something  in  him  of  the  blood  of  all 

Who  lived  five  hundred  years  ago  or  so, 

Who  were  diseased  with  alcohol  and  pork, 

And  poverty?     But  oh  these  centuries 

Of  agony  and  waste !     Let's  stop  it  now ! 

And  since  this  God  within  us  gives  us  choice 

To  let  the  dirty  plasma  flow  or  dam  it, 

To  give  the  channel  to  the  silver  stream 

Of  starry  power,  which  shall  we  do?     Now  choose 

Between  your  race  of  drunkards,  imbeciles, 

Lunatics  and  neurotics,  or  the  race 

[130] 


DR.  BURKE 

Of  those  who  sing  and  write,  or  measure  space, 
Build  temples,  bridges,  calculate  the  stars, 
Live  long  and  sanely. 

Well,  I  take  my  son, 

I  could  have  prophesied  his  eyes,  through  knowing 
The  color  of  my  mother's,  father's  eyes, 
The  color  of  his  mother's  parent's  eyes. 
I  could  have  told  his  hair. 

There's  subtler  things. 
My  father  died  before  this  son  was  born ; 
Why  does  this  son  smack  lips  and  turn  his  hand 
Just  like  my  father  did  ?     Not  imitation  — 
He  never  saw  him,  and  I  do  not  do  so. 
Refine  the  matter  where  you  will,  how  far 
You  cfioose  to  go,  it  is  not  eyes  and  hair, 
Chins,  shape  of  head,  of  limbs,  or  shape  of  hands, 
Nor  even  features,  look  of  eyes,  nor  sound 
Of  voice  that  we  inherit,  but  the  traits 
Of  innner  senses,  spiritual  gifts,  and  secret 
Beauties  and  powers  of  spirit,  which  result 
Not  solely  by  the  compound  of  the  souls 
Through  conjugating  cells,  but  in  the  fusion 
Something  arises  like  an  unknown  X 
And  starts  another  wonder  in  the  soul, 
That  comes  from  souls  compounded. 

Coroner 
You  have  done  well  to  study  Elenor  Murray. 

[131] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

How  do  I  view  the  matter?     To  begin 

Here  is  a  man  who  looks  upon  a  woman, 

Desires  her,  so  they  marry,  up  they  step 

Before  the  marriage  counter,  buy  a  license 

To  live  together,  propagate  their  kind. 

No  questions  asked.     I'll  later  come  to  that. 

This  couple  has  four  children,  Elenor 

Is  second  to  be  born.     I  knew  this  girl, 

I  cared  for  her  at  times  when  she  was  young  — 

Well,  for  the  picture  general,  she  matures 

Goes  teaching  school,  leaves  home,  goes  far  away, 

Has  restlessness  and  longings,  ups  and  downs 

Of  ecstasy  and  depression,  has  a  will 

Which  drives  her  onward,  dreams  that  call  to  her. 

Goes  to  the  war  at  last  to  sacrifice 

Her  life  in  duty,  and  the  root  of  this 

Is  masochistic    (though  I  love  the  flower), 

Comes  back  and  dies.     I  call  her  not  a  drop 

Slopped  from  the  giant  bowl;  she  is  a  growth 

Proceeding  on  clear  lines,   if  we  could  know, 

From  cells  that  joined,  and  had  within  themselves 

The  quality  of  the  stream  whose  source  I  see 

As  far  as  grandparents.     And  now  to  this : 

We  all  know  what  her  father,  mother  are. 
No  doubt  the  marriage  counter  could  have  seen  — 
Or  asked  what  was  not  visible.     But  who  knows 
About  the  father's  parents,  or  the  mother's? 
I  chance  to  know. 
~*v- 

[132] 


DR.  BURKE 

The  father  drinks,  you  say? 
Well,  he  drank  little  when  this  child  was  born, 
Had  he  drunk  much,  it  is  the  nerves  which  crave 
The  solace  of  the  cup,  and  not  the  cup 
Which  passes  from  the  parent  to  the  child. 
His  father  and  his  mother  were  good  blood, 
Steady,  industrious;  and  just  because 
His  father  and  his  mother  had  the  will 
To  fight  privation,  and  the  lonely  days 
Of  pioneering,  so  this  son  had  will 
To  fight,  aspire,  but  at  the  last  to  growl, 
And  darken  in  that  drug  store  prison,  take 
To  drink  at  times  in  anger  for  a  will 
That  was  so  balked. 

Well,  then  your  marriage  counter 
Could  scarcely  ask:  What  is  your  aim  in  life? 
You  clerk  now  in  a  drug  store,  you  aspire 
To  be  a  lawyer,  if  you  find  yourself 
Stopped  on  your  way  by  poverty,  the  work 
Of  clerking  to  earn  bread,  you  will  break  down, 
And  so  affect  your  progeny.     So,  you  see, 
For  all  of  that  the  daughter  Elenor 
Was  born  when  this  ambition  had  its  hope, 
Not  when  it  tangled  up  in  hopelessness ; 
And  therefore  is  thrown  out  of  the  account. 
The  father  must  be  passed  and  given  license 
To  wed  this  woman.     How  about  the  mother? 
You  never  knew  the  mother  of  the  mother. 
She  had  great  power  of  life  and  power  of  soul, 

[133] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Lived  to  be  eighty-seven,  to  the  last 
Was  tense,  high  voiced,  excitable,  ecstatic, 
Top  full  of  visions,  dreams,  and  plans  for  life. 
But  worse  than  that  at  fifty  lost  her  mind, 
Was  two  years  kept  at  Kankakee,  quite  mad, 
Grieving  for  fancied  wrongs  against  her  husband 
Some  five  years  dead,  and  praying  to  keep  down 
Desire  for  men.     Her  malady  was  sensed 
When  she  began  to  wander  here  and  there, 
In  shops  and  public  places,  in  the  church, 
Wherever  she  could  meet  with  men,  one  man 
Particularly  to  whom  she  made  advances 
Unwomanly  and  strange.     And  so  at  last 
She  turned  her  whole  mind  to  the  church,  became 
Religion  mad,  grew  mystical,  believed 
That  Jesus  Christ  had  taken  her  to  spouse. 
They  kept  her  in  confinement  for  two  years. 
The  rage  died  down  at  last,  and  she  came  home. 
But  to  the  last  was  nervous,  tense,  high  keyed. 
And  then  her  mind  failed  totally,  she  died 
At  eighty-seven  here. 

Now  I  could  take 

Some  certain  symbols  A  and  a,  and  show 
Out  of  the  laws  that  Mendel  found  for  us, 
What  chances  Elenor  Murray  had  to  live 
Free  of  the  madness,  clear  or  in  dilute, 
Diminished  or  made  over,  which  came  down 
From  this  old  woman  to  her.     It's  enough 
To  see  in  Elenor  Murray  certain  traits, 

[134] 


DR.  BURKE 

Passions  and  powers,  ecstasies  and  sorrows. 

And  from  them  life's  misfortunes,  and  to  see 

They  tally,  take  the  color  of  the  soul 

Of  this  old  woman,  back  of  her.     Even  to  see 

In  Elenor  Murray's  mother  states  of  soul, 

And  states  of  nerves,  passed  on  to  Elenor  Murray 

Directly  by  her  mother. 

But  you  say, 

Since  many  say  so,  here's  a  woman's  soul 
Most  beautiful  and  serviceable  in  the  world 
And  she  confutes  you,  in  your  logic  chopping, 
Materialistic  program,  who  would  give 
The  marriage  counter  power  to  pick  the  corn  seed 
For  future  planting: 

No,  I  say  to  this. 

What  does  it  come  to  ?     She  had  will  enough, 
And  aspiration,  struck  out  for  herself, 
Learned  for  herself,  did  service  in  the  war, 
As  many  did,  and  died  —  all  very  good. 
But  not  so  good  that  we  could  quite  afford 
To  take  the  chances  on  some  other  things 
Which  might  have  come  from  her.     Well,  to  begin 
Putting  aside  an  autopsy,  she  died 
Because  this  neural  weakness,  so  derived, 
Caught  in  such  stress  of  life  proved  far  too  much 
For  one  so  organized ;  a  stress  of  life 
Which  others  could  live  through,  and  have  lived  through, 
The  world  had  Elenor  Murray,  and  she  died 
[135] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Before  she  was  a  cost. —  But  just  suppose 

No  war  had  been  to  aureole  her  life  — 

And  she  had  lived  here  and  gone  mad  at  last 

Become  a  charge  upon  the  state  ?     Or  yet, 

As  she  was  love-mad,  by  the  common  word, 

And  as  she  had  neurotic  tendencies, 

Would  seek  neurotic  types  therefore,  suppose 

She  had  with  some  neurotic  made  a  marriage, 

And  brought  upon  us  types  worse  than5  themselves ; 

Given  us  the  symbol  double  A  instead 

Of  big  and  little  a,  where  are  you  then? 

You  have  some  suicides,  or  murders  maybe, 

Some  crimes  in  sex,  some  madness  on  your  hands, 

For  which  to  tax  the  strong  to  raise,  and  raise 

Some  millions  every  year. 

Are  we  so  mad 

For  beauty,  sacrifice  and  heroism, 
So  hungry  for  the  stimulus  of  these 
That  we  cannot  discern  and  fairly  appraise 
What  Elenor  Murray  was,  what  to  the  world 
She  brought,  for  which  we  overlook  the  harm 
She  might  have  done  the  world?     Not  if  we  think! 
And  if  we  think,  she  will  not  seem  God's  flower 
Made  spotted,  pale  or  streaked  by  cross  of  breed, 
A  wonder  and  a  richness  in  the  world; 
But  she  will  seem  a  blossom  which  to  these 
Added  a  novel  poison  with  the  power 
To  spread  her  poison!     And  we  may  dispense 
With  what  she  did  and  what  she  tried  to  do, 

[136] 


DR.  BURKE 

No  longer  sentimentalists,  to  keep 

The  chances  growing  in  the  world  to  bring 

A  better  race  of  men. 

Then  Doctor  Burke 

Left  off  philosophy  and  asked:  "  How  many 
Of  you  who  hear  me,  know  that  Elenor  Murray 
Was  distant  cousin  to  this  necrophile, 
This  Taylor  boy,  I  call  him  boy,  though  twenty, 
Who  got  the  rope  for  that  detested  murder 
Of  a  young  girl  —  Oh  yes,  let's  save  the  seed 
Of  stock  like  this!" 

But  only  David  Borrow 
Knew  Elenor  was  cousin  to  this  boy. 
And  Merival  spoke  up:     "What  is  to-day? 
It's  Thursday,  it's  to-morrow  that  he  hangs. 
I'll  go  now  to  the  jail  to  see  this  boy." 
"  He  hangs  at  nine  o'clock,"  said  Dr.  Burke. 
And  Merival  got  up  to  go.     The  party 
Broke  up,  departed.     At  the  jail  he  saw 
The  wretched  creature  doomed  to  die.     And  turned 
Half  sick  from  seeing  how  he  tossed  and  looked 
With  glassy  eyes.     The  sheriff  had  gone  out. 
And  Merival  could  see  him,  get  the  case. 
Next  afternoon  they  met,  the  sheriff  told 
This  story  to  the  coroner. 


[137] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 


CHARLES  WARREN,  THE  SHERIFF 

I  have  seen  twenty  men  hanged,  hung  myself 

Two  in  this  jail,  with  whom  I  talked  the  night 

Before  they  had  the  rope,  knotted  behind 

The  ear  to  break  the  neck.     These  two  I  hanged, 

One  guilty  and  defiant,  taking  chops, 

Four  cups  of  coffee  just  an  hour  before 

We  swung  him  off;  the  other  trembling,  pale, 

Protesting  innocence,  but  guilty  too  — 

Both  wore  the  same  look  in  the  middle  watch. 

I  tell  you  what  it  is:     You  take  a  steer, 

And  windlass  him  to  where  the  butcher  stands 

With  hammer  ready  for  the  blow  and  knife 

To  slit  the  throat  after  the  hammer  falls, 

Well,  there's  a  moment  when  the  steer  is  standing 

Head,  neck  strained  side-ways,  eyes  rolled  side-ways  too, 

Fixed,  bright  seen  this  way,  but  another  way 

A  film  seems  spreading  on  them.     That's  the  look. 

They  wear  a  corpse-like  pallor,  and  their  tongues 

Are  loose,  sprawl  in  their  mouths,  lie  paralyzed 

Against  their  teeth,  or  fall  back  in  their  throats 

Which  make  them  cough  and  stop  for  words  and  close 

Dry  lips  with  little  pops. 

There's  something  else: 

Their  minds  are  out  of  them,  like  a  rubber  band 
Stretched  from  the  place  it's  pinned,  about  to  break. 
And  all  the  time  they  try  to  draw  it  back, 

[138] 


CHARLES  WARREN,  THE  SHERIFF 

And  give  it  utterance  with  that  sprawling  tongue, 
And  lips  too  dry  for  words.     They  hold  it  tight 
As  a  woman  giving  birth  holds  to  the  sheet 
Tied  to  the  bed's  head,  pulls  the  sheet  to  end 
The  agony  and  the  reluctance  of  the  child 
That  pauses,  dreads  to  enter  in  this  world. 

So  was  it  with  Fred  Taylor.     But  before 

The  high  Court  shook  his  hope,  he  talked  to  me 

Freely  and  fully,  saying  many  times 

What  could  the  world  expect  of  him  beside 

Some  violence  or  murder?     He  had  borrowed 

The  books  his  lawyers  used  to  fight  for  him, 

And  read  for  hours  and  days  about  heredity. 

And  in  our  talks  he  said :  mix  red  and  violet, 

You  have  the  color  purple.     Strike  two  notes, 

You  have  a  certain  chord,  and  nature  made  me 

By  rules  as  mathematical  as  they  use 

In  mixing  drugs  or  gases.     Then  he'd  say: 

Look  at  this  table,  and  he'd  show  to  me 

A  diagram  of  chickens,  how  blue  fowls 

Come  from  a  cross  of  black  with  one  of  white 

With  black  splashed  feathers.     Look  at  the  blues,  he'd  say. 

They  mate,  and  of  four  chickens,  two  are  blue, 

And  one  is  black  and  one  is  white.     These  blues 

Produce  in  that  proportion.     But  the  black 

And  white  have  chickens  wrhite  and  black,  you  see 

In  equal  numbers.     Don't  you  see  that  I 

Was  caught  in  mathematics,  jotted  down 

Upon  a  slate  before  I  came  to  earth? 

[139] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

They  could  have  picked  my  forbears;  on  a  slate 
Forecast  my  soul,  its  tendencies,  if  they 
Had  been  that  devilish.     And  so  he  talked. 

Well,  then  he  heard  that  Elenor  Murray  died, 

And  told  me  that  her  grandmother,  that  woman 

Known  for  her  queerness  and  her  lively  soul 

To  eighty  years  and  more,  was  grandmother 

To  his  father,  and  this  Elenor  Murray  cousin 

To  his  father.     There  you  have  it,  he  exclaimed, 

She  killed  herself,  and  I  know  why,  he  said 

She  loved  someone.     This  love  is  in  our  blood, 

And  overflows,  or  spurts  between  the  logs 

You  dam  it  with,  or  fully  stayed  grows  green 

With  summer  scum,  breeds  frogs  and  spotted  snakes. 

He  was  a  study  and  I  studied  him. 

I'd  sit  beside  his  cell  and  read  some  words 

From  his  confession,  ask  why  did  you  this? 

His  crime  was  monstrous,  but  he  won  me  over. 

I  wished  to  help  the  boy,  for  boy  he  was 

Just  nineteen,  and  I  pitied  him.     At  last 

His  story  seemed  as  clear  as  when  you  see 

The  truth  behind  poor  words  that  say  as  much 

As  words  can  say  —  you  see,  you  get  the  truth 

And  know  it,  even  if  you  never  pass 

The  truth  to  others. 

Lord!     This  girl  he  killed 

Knew  not  the  power  she  played  with.     Why  she  sat 
[140] 


CHARLES  WARREN,  THE  SHERIFF 

Like  a  child  upon  the  asp's  nest  picking  flowers. 
Or  as  a  child  will  pet  a  mad  dog.     Look 
You  come  into  my  life,  what  do  you  bring? 
Why,  everything  that  made  your  life,  all  pains, 
All  raptures,  disappointments,  wisdom  learned 
You  bring  to  me.     But  do  you  show  them,  no! 
You  hide  them  maybe,  some  of  them,  and  leave 
Myself  to  learn  you  by  the  hardest  means, 
And  bing!     A  something  in  you,  or  in  me, 
Out  of  a  past  explodes,  or  better  still 
Extends  a  claw  from  out  the  buttoned  coat 
And  rips  a  face. 

So  this  poor  girl  was  killed, 
And  by  an  innocent  coquetry  evoked 
The  claw  that  tore  her  breast  away. 

One  day 

As  I  passed  by  his  cell  I  stopped  and  sat. 
What  was  the  first  thing  entering  in  your  mind 
From  which  you  trace  your  act?     And  he  said:  "Well 
Almost  from  the  beginning  all  my  mind 
Was  on  her  from  the  moment  I  awaked 
Until  I  slept,  and  often  I  awoke 
At  two  or  three  o'clock  with  thoughts  of  her. 
And  through  the  day  I  thought  of  nothing  else; 
Sometimes  I  could  not  eat.     At  school  my  thought 
Stretched  out  of  me  to  her,  could  not  be  pulled 
Back  to  the  lesson.     I  could  read  a  page 
As  it  were  Greek,  not  understand  a  word. 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

But  just  the  moment  I  was  with  her  then 
My  soul  re-entered  me,  I  was  at  peace, 
And  happy,  oh  so  happy!     In  the  days 
When  we  were  separated  my  unrest 
Took  this  form :  that  I  must  be  with  her,  or 
If  that  could  not  be,  then  some  other  place 
Was  better  than  the  place  I  was  —  I  strained, 
Lived  in  a  constant  strain,  found  no  content 
With  anything  or  place,  could  find  no  peace 
Except  with  her." 

"  Right  from  the  first  I  had 
Two  minds,  two  hearts  concerning  her,  and  one 
Was  confidence,  and  one  was  doubt,  one  love, 
One  hatred.     And  one  purpose  was  to  serve  her, 
Guard  her  and  care  for  her,  one  said  destroy, 
Ruin  or  kill  her.     Sitting  by  her  side, 
Except  as  I  shall  say  I  loved  her,  trusted  her, 
Away  from  her,  I  doubted  her  and  hated  her. 
But  at  the  dances  when  I  saw  her  smile 
Up  at  another  man,  the  storming  blood 
Roared  in  my  brain  for  wondering  about 
The  words  they  said.     He  might  be  holding  her 
Too  close  to  him ;  or  as  I  watched  I  saw 
His  knee  indent  her  skirt  between  her  knees, 
That  might  be  when  she  smiled.     Then  going  home 
I'd  ask  her  what  he  said.     She'd  only  smile 
And  keep  a  silence  that  I  could  not  open 
With  any  pry  of  questions." 


CHARLES  WARREN,  THE  SHERIFF 

"  Well,  we  quarreled, 
About  this  boy  she  danced  with.     So  I  said : 
I'll  leave  her,  never  see  her,  I'll  go  find 
Another  girl,  forget  her.     Sunday  next 
I  saw  her  driving  with  this  fellow.     I 
Was  walking  in  the  road,  they  passed  me  laughing, 
She  turned  about  and  waved  her  hand  at  me. 
That  night  I  lay  awake  and  tossed  and  thought: 
Where  are  they  now?     What  are  they  doing  now? 
He's  kissing  her  upon  the  lips  I've  kissed, 
Or  worse,  perhaps,  I  have  been  fooled,  she  lies 
Within  his  arms  and  gives  him  what  for  love 
I  never  asked  her,  never  dared  to  ask." 
This  brought  Fred  Taylor's  story  to  the  murder, 
In  point  of  madness,  anyway.     Some  business 
Broke  in  our  visit  here.     Another  time 
I  sat  with  him  and  questioned  him  again 
About  the  night  he  killed  her. 

"  Well,"  he  said, 

"  I  told  you  that  we  quarreled.     So  I  fought 
To  free  myself  of  thought  of  her  —  no  use. 
I  tried  another  girl,  it  wouldn't  work. 
For  at  the  dance  I  took  this  girl  to,  I 
Saw  Gertrude  with  this  fellow,  and  the  madness 
Came  over  me  in  blackness,  hurricanes, 
Until  I  found  myself  in  front  of  her, 
Where  she  was  seated,  asking  for  a  dance. 
She  smiled  and  rose  and  danced  with  me.     And  then 
As  the  dance  ended,  May  I  come  to  see  you, 

[H3] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

I'm  sorry  for  my  words,  came  from  my  tongue, 
In  spite  of  will.     She  laughed  and  said  to  me: 
1  If  you'll  behave  yourself.'  " 


"  I  went  to  see  her, 

But  came  away  more  wretched  than  I  went. 
She  seemed  to  have  sweet  secrets,  in  her  silence 
And  eyes  too  calm  the  secrets  hid  themselves. 
At  first  I  could  not  summon  up  the  strength 
To  ask  her  questions,  but  at  last  I  did. 
And  then  she  only  shook  her  head  and  laughed, 
And  spoke  of  something  else.     She  had  a  way 
Of  mixing  up  the  subjects,  till  my  mind 
Forgot  the  very  thing  I  wished  to  know, 
Or  dulled  its  edges  so,  if  I  remembered 
I  could  not  ask  it  so  to  bring  the  answer 
I  wished  from  her.     I  came  away  so  weak 
I  scarce  could  walk,  fell  into  sleep  at  once, 
But  woke  at  three  o'clock,  and  could  not  sleep." 


"  Before  this  quarrel  we  had  been  engaged 
And  at  this  evening's  end  I  brought  it  up: 
'  What  shall  we  do  ?     Are  you  engaged  to  me  ? 
Will  you  renew  it  ?  '     And  she  said  to  me : 
'  We  still  are  young,  it's  better  to  be  free. 
Let's  play  and  dance.     Be  gay,  for  if  you  will 
I'll  go  with  you,  but  when  you're  gloomy,  dear, 
You  are  not  company  for  a  girl.'  ': 


CHARLES  WARREN,  THE  SHERIFF 

"Dear  me! 

Here  was  I  five  feet  nine,  and  could  have  crushed 
Her  little  body  with  my  giant  arms. 
And  yet  in  strength  that  counts,  the  mind  that  moves 
The  body,  but  much  more  can  move  itself, 
And  other  minds,  she  was  a  spirit  power, 
And  I  but  just  a  derrick  slowly  swung 
By  an  engine  smaller,  noisy  with  its  chug, 
And  cloudy  with  its  smoke  bituminous. 
That  night,  however,  she  engaged  to  go 
To  dance  with  me  a  week  hence.     But  meanwhile 
The  hellish  thing  comes,  on  the  morning  after. 
Thus  chum  of  mine,  who  testified,  John  Luce 
Came  to  me  with  the  story  that  this  man 
That  Gertrude  danced  with,  told  him  —  O  my  God 
That  Gertrude  hinted  she  would  come  across, 
Give  him  the  final  bliss.     That  was  the  proof 
They  brought  out  in  the  trial,  as  you  know. 
The  fellow  said  it,  damn  him  —  whether  she 
Made  such  a  promise,  who  knows?     Would  to  God 
I  knew  before  you  hang  me.     There  I  stood 
And  heard  this  story,  felt  my  arteries 
Lock  as  you'd  let  canal  gates  down,  my  heart 
Beat  for  deliverance  from  the  bolted  streams. 
That  night  I  could  not  sleep,  but  found  a  book, 
Just  think  of  this  for  fate!     Under  my  eyes 
There  comes  an  ancient  story  out  of  Egypt: 
Thyamis  fearing  he  would  die  and  lose 
The  lovely  Chariclea,  strikes  her  dead, 
Then  kills  himself,  some  thousands  of  years  ago. 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

It's  all  forgotten  now,  I  say  to  self, 

Who  cares,  what  matters  it,  the  thing  was  done 

And  served  its  end.     The  story  stuck  with  me. 

But  the  next  night  and  the  next  night  I  stole  out 

To  spy  on  Gertrude,  by  the  path  in  the  grass 

Lay  for  long  hours.     And  on  the  third  night  saw 

At  half-past  eight  or  nine  this  fellow  come 

And  take  her  walking  in  the  darkness  —  where? 

I  could  have  touched  them  as  they  walked  the  path, 

But  could  not  follow  for  the  moon  which  rose. 

Besides  I  lost  them." 

"  Well,  the  time  approached 
Of  the  dance,  and  still  I  brooded,  then  resolved. 
My  hatred  now  was  level  with  the  cauldron, 
With  bubbles  crackling.     So  the  spade  I  took, 
Hidden  beneath  the  seat  may  show  forethought, 
They  caught  the  jury  with  that  argument, 
And  forethought  does  it  show,  but  who  made  me 
To  have  such  forethought?" 

"Then  I  called  for  her 
And  took  her  to  the  dance.     I  was  most  gay, 
Because  the  load  was  lifted  from  my  mind, 
And  I  had  found  relief.     And  so  we  danced. 
And  she  danced  with  this  fellow.     I  was  calm, 
Believed  somehow  he  had  not  had  her  yet. 
And  if  his  knee  touched  hers  —  why  let  it  go. 
Nothing  beyond  shall  happen,  even  this 
Shall  not  be  any  more." 


CHARLES  WARREN,  THE  SHERIFF 

"  We  started  home. 

Before  we  reached  that  clump  of  woods  I  asked  her 
If  she  would  marry  me.     She  laughed  at  me. 
I  asked  her  if  she  loved  that  other  man. 
She  said  you  are  a  silly  boy,  and  laughed. 
And  then  I  asked  her  if  she'd  marry  me, 
And  if  she  would  not,  why  she  would  not  do  it. 
We  came  up  to  the  woods  and  she  was  silent, 
I  could  not  make  her  speak.     I  stopped  the  horse. 
She  sat  all  quiet,  I  could  see  her  face 
Under  the  brilliance  of  the  moon.     I  saw 
A  thin  smile  on  her  face  —  and  then  I  struck  her, 
And  from  the  floor  grabbed  up  the  iron  wrench, 
And  struck  her,  took  her  out  and  laid  her  down, 
And  did  what  was  too  horrible,  they  say, 
To  do  and  keep  my  life.     To  finish  up 
I  reached  back  for  the  iron  wrench,  first  felt 
Her  breast  to  find  her  heart,  no  use  of  wrench, 
She  was  already  dead.     I  took  the  spade, 
Scraped  off  the  leaves  between  two  trees  and  dug, 
And  buried  her  and  said :     '  My  Chariclea 
No  man  shall  have  you.'     Then  I  drove  till  morning, 
And  after  some  days  reached  Missouri,  where 
They  caught  me." 


So  Fred  Taylor  told  me  all, 
Filled  in  the  full  confession  that  he  made, 
And  which  they  used  in  court,  with  looks  and  words, 
Scarce  to  be  reproduced;  but  to  the  last 

[147] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

He  said  the  mathematics  of  his  birth 
Accounted  for  his  deed. 

Is  it  not  true? 

If  you  resolved  the  question  that  the  jury 
Resolved,  did  he  know  right  from  wrong,  did  he 
Know  what  he  did,  the  jury  answered  truly 
To  give  the  rope  to  him.     Or  if  you  say 
These  mathematics  may  be  true,  and  still 
A  man  like  that  is  better  out  of  way, 
And  saying  so  become  the  very  spirit, 
And  reason  which  slew  Gertrude,  disregarding 
The  devil  of  heredity  which  clutched  him, 
As  he  put  by  the  reason  we  obey, 
It  may  be  well  enough,  I  do  not  know. 

Now  for  last  night  before  this  morning  fixed 

To  swing  him  off.     His  lawyers  went  to  see 

The  governor  to  win  reprieval,  perhaps 

A  commutation.     I  could  see  his  eyes 

Had  two  lights  in  them;  one  was  like  a  lantern 

With  the  globe  greased,  which  showed  he  could  not  see 

Himself  in  death  tomorrow  —  what  is  that 

In  the  soul  that  cannot  see  itself  in  death? 

No  to-morrow,  continuation,  the  wall,  the  end! 

And  yet  this  very  smear  upon  the  globe 

Was  death's  half  fleshless  hand  which  rubbed  across 

His  senses  and  his  hope.     The  other  light 

Was  weirdly  bright  for  terror,  expectation 

Of  good  news  from  the  governor. 


CHARLES  WARREN,  THE  SHERIFF 

For  his  lawyers 

Were  in  these  hours  petitioning.     He  would  ask : 
"  No   news?     No    word?     What    is    the    time?"     His 

tongue 

Would  fall  back  in  his  throat,  we  saw  the  strain 
Of  his  stretched  soul.     He'd  sit  upon  his  couch 
Hands  clasped,  head  down.     Arise  and  hold  the  bars, 
Himself  fling  on  the  couch  face  down  and  shake. 
But  when  he  heard  the  hammers  ring  that  nail 
The  scaffold  into  shape,  he  whirled  around 
Like  a  rat  in  a  cage.     And  when  the  sand  bag  fell, 
That  tested  out  the  rope,  a  muffled  thug, 
And  the  rope  creaked,  he  started  up  and  moaned 
"  You're  getting  ready,"  and  his  body  shivered, 
His  white  hands  could  not  hold  the  bars,  he  reeled 
And  fell  upon  the  couch  again. 

Suppose 

There  was  no  whiskey  and  no  morphia, 
Except  for  what  the  parsons  think  fit  use, 
A  poor  weak  fellow  —  not  a  Socrates  — 
Must  march  the  gallows,  walk  with  every  nerve 
Up-bristled  like  a  hair  in  fright.     This  night 
Was  much  too  horrible  for  me.     At  last 
I  had  the  doctor  dope  him  unaware, 
And  for  a  time  he  slept. 

But  when  the  dawn 

Looked  through  the  little  windows  near  the  ceiling 
Cob-webbed  and  grimed,  with  light  like  sanded  water, 
[  H9] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  echoes  started  in  the  corridors 
Of  feet  and  objects  moved,  then  all  at  once 
He  sprang  up  from  his  sleep,  and  gave  a  groan, 
Half  yell,  that  shook  us  all 

A  clergyman 

Came  soon  to  pray  with  him,  and  he  grew  calmer, 
And  said:     "  O  pray  for  her,  but  pray  for  me 
That  I  may  see  her,  when  this  riddle-world 
No  longer  stands  between  us,  slipped  from  her 
And  soon  from  me." 

For  breakfast  he  took  coffee, 
A  piece  of  toast,  no  more.     The  sickening  hour 
Approaches  —  he  is  sitting  on  his  couch, 
Bent  over,  head  in  hands,  dazed,  or  in  prayer. 
My  deputy  reads  the  warrant  —  while  I  stand 
At  one  side  so  to  hear,  but  not  to  see. 
And  then  my  clerk  comes  quickly  through  the  door 
That  opens  from  the  office  in  the  jail; 
Runs  up  the  iron  steps,  all  out  of  breath, 
And  almost  shouts:     "The  governor  telephones 
To  stop;  the  sentence  is  commuted."     Then 
I  grew  as  weak  as  the  culprit  —  took  the  warrant, 
And  stepped  up  to  the  cell's  door,  coughed,  inhaled, 
And  after  getting  breath  I  said:     "  Good  news, 
The  governor  has  saved  you." 

Then  he  laughed, 

Half  fell  against  the  bars,  and  like  a  rag 
Sank  in  a  heap. 


CHARLES  WARREN,  THE  SHERIFF 

I  don't  know  to  this  day 
What  moved  the  governor.     For  crazy  men 
Are  hanged  sometimes.     To-day  he  leaves  the  jail. 
We  take  him  where  the  criminal  insane 
Are  housed  at  our  expense. 


So  Merival  heard  the  sheriff.     As  he  knew 

The  governor's  mind,  and  how  the  governor 

Gave  heed  to  public  thought,  or  what  is  deemed 

The  public  thought,  what's  printed  in  the  press, 

He  wondered  at  the  governor.     For  no  crime 

Had  stirred  the  county  like  this  crime.     And  if 

A  jury  and  the  courts  adjudged  this  boy 

Of  nineteen  in  his  mind,  what  was  the  right 

Of  interference  by  the  governor? 

So  Merival  was  puzzled.     They  were  chums, 

The  governor  and  Merival  in  old  days. 

Had  known  club-life  together,  ate  and  drank 

Together  in  the  days  when  Merival 

Came  to  Chicago  living  down  the  hurt 

He  took  from  her  who  left  him.     In  those  days 

The  governor  was  struggling,  Merival 

Had  helped  with  friends  and  purse  —  and  later  helped 

The  governor's  ambition  from  the  time 

He  went  to  congress.     So  the  two  were  friends 

With  memories  and  secrets  for  the  stuff 

Of  friendship,  glad  renewal  of  the  surge 

Of  lasting  friendship  when  they  met. 

[151] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  now 

He  sensed  a  secret,  meant  to  bring  it  forth. 
And  telegraphed  the  governor,  who  said : 
"  I'll  see  you  in  Chicago."     Merival 
Went  up  to  see  the  governor  and  talk. 
They  had  not  met  for  months  for  leisured  talk. 
And  now  the  governor  said:     "  I'll  tell  you  all, 
And  make  it  like  a  drama.     I'll  bring  in 
My  wife  who  figured  in  this  murder  case1. 
It  was  this  way :     It's  nearly  one  o'clock, 
I'm  back  from  hearing  lawyers  plead.     I  wish 
To  make  this  vivid  so  you'll  get  my  mind. 
I  tell  you  what  I  said  to  her.     It's  this :  " 


THE  GOVERNOR 

I'm  home  at  last.     How  long  were  you  asleep? 
I  startled  you.     The  time?     It's  midnight  past. 
Put  on  your  slippers  and  your  robe,  my  dear, 
And  make  some  coffee  for  me  —  what  a  night ! 
Yes,  tell  you?     I  shall  tell  you  everything. 
I  must  tell  someone,  and  a  wife  should  know 
The  workings  of  a  governor's  mind  —  no  one 
Could  guess  what  turned  the  scale  to  save  this  man 
Who  would  have  died  to-morrow,  but  for  me. 
That's  fine.     This  coffee  helps  me.     As  I  said 
This  night  has  been  a  trial.     Well,  you  know 
I  told  these  lawyers  they  could  come  at  eight, 


THE  GOVERNOR 

And  so  they  came.     A  seasoned  lawyer  one, 

The  other  young  and  radical,  both  full 

Of  sentiment  of  some  sort.     And  there  you  sit, 

And  do  not  say  a  word  of  disapproval. 

You  smile,  which  means  you  sun  yourself  within 

The  power  I  have,  and  yet  do  you  approve? 

This  man  committed  brutal  murder,  did 

A  nameless  horror;  now  he's  saved  from  death. 

The  father  and  the  mother  of  the  girl, 

The  neighborhood,  perhaps,  in  which  she  lived 

Will  roar  against  me,  think  that  I  was  bought, 

Or  used  by  someone  I'm  indebted  to 

In  politics.     Oh  no!     It's  really  funny, 

Since  it  is  simpler  than  such  things  as  these. 

And  no  one,  saving  you,  shall  know  the  secret. 

For  there  I  sat  and  didn't  say  a  word 

To  indicate,  betray  my  thought ;  not  when 

The  thing  came  out  that  moved  me.     Let  them  read 

The  doctor's  affidavits,  that  this  man 

Was  crazy  when  he  killed  the  girl,  and  read 

The  transcript  of  the  evidence  on  the  trial. 

They  read  and  talked.     At  last  the  younger  lawyer, 

For  sometime  still,  kept  silent  by  the  other, 

Pops  out  with  something,  reads  an  affidavit, 

As  foreign  to  the  matter  as  a  story 

Of  melodrama  color  on  the  screen, 

Which  still  contained  a  sentence  that  went  home; 

I  felt  my  mind  turn  like  a  turn-table, 

And  click  as  when  the  switchman  kicks  the  tongue 

Of  steel  into  the  slot  that  holds  the  table. 

[153] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  from  my  mind  the  engine,  that's  the  problem, 

Puffed,  puffed  and  moved  away,  out  on  the  track, 

And  disappeared  upon  its  business.     How 

Is  that  for  metaphor?     Your  coffee,  dear, 

Stirs  up  my  fancy.     But  to  tell  the  rest, 

If  my  face  changed  expression,  or  my  eye 

Betrayed  my  thought,  then  I  have  no  control 

Of  outward  seeming.     For  they  argued  on 

An  hour  or  so  thereafter.     And  I  asked 

Re-reading  of  the  transcript  where  this  man 

Told  of  his  maniac  passion,  of  the  night 

He  killed  the  girl,  the  doctors'  testimony 

I  had  re-read,  and  let  these  lawyers  think 

My  interest  centered  there,  and  my  decision 

Was  based  upon  such  matters,  and  at  last 

The  penalty  commuted.     When  in  truth 

I  tell  you  I  had  let  the  fellow  hang 

For  all  of  this,  except  that  I  took  fire 

Because  of  something  in  this  affidavit 

Irrelevant  to  the  issue,  reaching  me 

In  something  only   relevant  to  me. 

O,  well,  all  life  is  such.     Our  great  decisions 

Flame  out  of  sparks,  where  roaring  fires  before, 

Not  touching  our  combustibles  wholly  failed 

To  flame  or  light  us. 

Now  the  secret  hear. 
Do  you  remember  all  the  books  I  read 
Two  years  ago  upon  heredity, 
Foot-notes  to  evolution,  the  dynamics 

[154] 


THE  GOVERNOR 

Of  living  matter?     Well,  it  wasn't  that 
That  made  me  save  this  fellow.     There  you  smile 
For  knowing  how  and  when  I  got  these  books, 
Who  woke  my  interest  in  them.     Never  mind, 
You  don't  know  yet  my  reasons. 

But  I'll  tell  you: 

And  let  you  see  a  governor's  mind  at  work. 
When  this  young  lawyer  in  this  affidavit 
Read  to  a  certain  place  my  mind  strayed  off 
And  lived  a  time  past,  you  were  present  too. 
It  was  that  morning  when  I  passed  my  crisis, 
Had  just  dodged  death,  could  scarcely  speak,  too  weak 
To  lift  a  hand  to  feed  myself,  but  needed 
Vital  replenishment  of  strength,  and  then 
I  got  it  in  a  bowl  of  oyster  soup, 
Rich  cream  at  that.     And  as  I  live,  my  dear, 
As  this  young  lawyer  read,  I  felt  myself 
In  bed  as  I  lay  then,  re-lived  the  weakness, 
Could  see  the  spoon  that  carried  to  my  mouth 
The  appetizing  soup,  imagined  there 
The  feelings  I  had  then  of  getting  fingers 
Upon  the  rail  of  life  again,  how  faint, 
But  with  such  clear  degrees.     Could  see  the  hand 
That  held  the  spoon,  the  eyes  that  looked  at  me 
In  triumph  for  the  victory  of  my  strength, 
Which  battled,  almost  lost  the  prize  of  life. 
It  all  came  over  me  when  this  lawyer  read: 
Elenor  Murray  lately  come  from  France 
Found  dead  beside  the  river,  was  the  cousin 

[155] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Of  this  Fred  Taylor,  and  had  planned  to  come 
To  see  the  governor,  death  prevented  her  — 
Suppose  ft  had? 

That  affidavit,   doubtless 
Was  read  to  me  to  move  me  for  the  fact 
This  man  was  kindred  to  a  woman  who 
Served  in  the  war,  this  lawyer  was  that  cheap! 
And  isn't  it  as  cheap  to  think  that  I 
Could  be  persuaded  by  the  circumstance 
That  Elenor  Murray,  she  who  nursed  me  once, 
Was  cousin  to  this  fellow,  if  this  lawyer 
Knew  this,  and  did  he  know  it?     I  don't  know. 
Had  Elenor  Murray  lived  she  would  have  come 
To  ask  her  cousin's  life — I  know  her  heart. 
And  at  the  last,  I  think  this  was  the  thing: 
I  thought  I'd  do  exactly  what  I'd  do 
If  she  had  lived  and  asked  me,  disregard 
Her  death,  and  act  as  if  she  lived,  repay 
Her  dead  hands,  which  in  life  had  saved  my  life. 

Now,  dear,  your  eyes  have  tears  —  I  know  —  believe  me, 
I  had  no  romance  with  this  Elenor  Murray. 
Good  Lord,  it's  one  o'clock,  I  must  to  bed.  .  .  . 

You  get  my  story  Merival  ?     Do  you  think, 

A  softness  in  the  heart  went  to  the  brain 

And  softened  that?     Well  now  I  stress  two  things: 

I  can't  endure  defeat,  nor  bear  to  see 

An  ardent  spirit  thwarted.     What  I've  achieved 

Has  been  through  will  that  would  not  bend,  and  so 

[156] 


THE  GOVERNOR 

To  see  that  in  another  wins  my  love, 

And  my  support.     Now  take  this  Elenor  Murray 

She  had  a  will  like  mine,  she  worked  her  way 

As  I  have  done.     And  just  to  hear  that  she 

Had  planned  to  see  me,  ask  for  clemency 

For  this  condemned  degenerate,  made  me  say 

Shall  I  let  death  defeat  her?     Take  the  breach 

And  make  her  death  no  matter  in  my  course? 

For  as  I  live  if  she  had  come  to  me 

I  had  done  that  I  did.     And  why  was  that? 

No  romance!     Never  that!     Yet  human  love 

As  friend  can  keep  for  friend  in  this  our  life 

I  felt  for  Elenor  Murray  —  and  for  this: 

It  was  her  will  that  would  not  take  defeat, 

Devotion  to  her  work,  and  in  my  case 

This  depth  of  friendship  welling  in  her  heart 

For  human  beings,  that  I  shared  in  —  there 

Gave  tireless  healing  to  her  nursing  hands 

And  saved  my  life.     And  for  a  life  a  life. 

This  criminal  will  live  some  years,  we'll  say, 

Were  better  dead.     All  right.     He'll  cost  the  state 

Say  twenty  thousand  dollars.     What  is  that 

Contrasted  with  the  cost  to  me,  if  I 

Had  let  him  hang?     There  is  a  bank  account, 

Economies  in  the  realm  of  thought  to  watch. 

And  don't  you  think  the  souls  —  let's  call  them  souls 

Of  these  avenging,  law  abiding  folk, 

These  souls  of  the  community  all  in  all 

Will  be  improved  for  hearing  that  I  did 

A  human  thing,  and  profit  more  therefrom 

[157] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Than  though  that  sense  of  balance  in  their  souls 
Struck  for  the  thought  of  crime  avenged,  the  law 
Fulfilled  and  vindicated?     Yes,  it's  true. 
And  Merival  spoke  up  and  said:  "  It's  true, 
I  understand  your  story,  and  I'm  glad. 
It's  like  you  and  I'll  tell  my  jury  first, 
And  they  will  scatter  it,  what  moved  in  you 
And  how  this  Elenor  Murray  saved  a  life." 


The  talk  of  waste  in  human  life  was  constant 
As  Coroner  Merival  took  evidence 
At  Elenor  Murray's  inquest.     Everyone 
Could  think  of  waste  in  some  one's  life  as  well 
As  in  his  own. 

John  Scofield  knew  the  girl, 

Had  worked  for  Arthur  Fouche,  her  grandfather, 
And  knew  what  course  his  life  took,  how  his  fortune 
Was  wasted,  dwindled  down. 

Remembering 

A  talk  he  heard  between  this  Elenor  Murray 
And  Arthur  Fouche,  her  grandfather,  he  spoke 
To  Coroner  Merival  on  the  street  one  day: 


JOHN  SCOFIELD 

You  see  I  worked  for  Arthur  Fouche,  he  said, 
Until  the  year  before  he  died ;  I  knew 


JOHN  SCOFIELD 

That  worthless  son  of  his  who  lived  with  him, 
Born  when  his  mother  was  past  bearing  time, 
So  born  a  weakling.     When  he  came  from  college 
He  married  soon  and  came  to  mother's  hearth, 
And  brought  his  bride.     I  heard  the  old  man  say : 
"  A  man  should  have  his  own  place  when  he  marries, 
Not  settle  in  the  family  nest  " ;  I  heard 
The  old  man  offer  him  a  place,  or  offer 
To  buy  a  place  for  him.     This  baby  boy 
Ran  quick  to  mother,  cried  and  asked  to  stay. 
What  happened  then?     What  always  happens.     Soon 
This  son  began  to  edge  upon  the  father, 
And  take  the  reins  a  little,  Arthur  Fouche 
Was  growing  old.     And  at  the  last  the  son 
Controlled  the  bank  account  and  ran  the  farms ; 
And  Mrs.  Fouche  gave  up  her  place  at  table 
To  daughter-in-law,  no  longer  served  or  poured 
The  coffee  —  so  you  see  how  humble  beggars 
Become  the  masters,  it  is  always  so. 
Now  this  I  know :     When  this  boy  came  from  school 
And  brought  his  wife  back  to  the  family  place, 
Old  Arthur  Fouche  had  twenty  thousand  dollars 
On  saving  in  the  bank,  and  lots  of  money 
Loaned  out  on  mortgages.     But  when  he  died 
He  owed  two  thousand  dollars  at  the  bank. 
Where  did  the  money  go?    Why,  for  ten  years 
When  Arthur  Fouche  and  son  were  partners,  I 
Saw  what  went  on,  and  saw  this  boy  buy  cattle 
When  beef  was  high,  sell  cattle  when  it  was  low, 
And  lose  each  year  a  little.     And  I  saw 
[159] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

This  boy  buy  buggies,  autos  and  machinery, 
And  lose  the  money  trading.     So  it  was, 
This  worthless  boy  had  nothing  in  his  head 
To  run  a  business,  which  used  up  the  fortune 
Of  Arthur  Fouche,  and  strangled  Arthur  Fouche, 
As  vines  destroy  an  oak  tree.     Well,  you  know 
When  Arthur  Fouche's  will  was  opened  up 
They  found  this  son  was  willed  most  everything  — 
It's  always  so.     The  children  who  go  out, 
And  make  their  way  get  nothing,  and  the  son 
Who  stays  at  home  by  mother  gets  the  swag. 
And  so  this  son  was  willed  the  family  place 
And  sold  it  to  that  chiropractor  —  left 
For  California  to  remake  his  life, 
And  died  there,  after  wasting  all  his  life, 
His  father's  fortune,  too. 

So,  now  to  show  you 

How  age  breaks  down  a  mind  and  dulls  a  heart, 
I'll  tell  you  what  I  heard: 

This  Elenor  Murray 

Was  eighteen,  just  from  High  School,  and  one  day 
She  came  to  see  her  grandfather  and  talked. 
The  old  man  always  said  he  loved  her  most 
Of  all  the  grandchildren,  and  Mrs.  Fouche 
Told  me  a  dozen  times  she  thought  as  much 
Of  Elenor  Murray  as  she  did  of  any 
Child  of  her  own.     Too  bad  they  didn't  show 
Their  love  for  her. 

[160] 


JOHN  SCOFIELD 

I  was  in  and  out  the  room 
Where  Elenor  Murray  and  her  grandfather 
Were  talking  on  that  day,  was  planing  doors 
That  swelled  and  wouldn't  close.     There  was  no  secret 
About  this  talk  of  theirs  that  I  could  see, 
And  so  I  listened. 

Elenor  began: 

"  If  you  can  help  me,  grandpa,  just  a  little 
I  can  go  through  the  university. 
I  can  teach  school  in  summer  and  can  save 
A  little  money  by  denying  self. 
If  you  can  let  me  have  two  hundred  dollars, 
When  school  begins  each  year,  divide  it  up, 
If  you  prefer,  and  give  me  half  in  the  fall, 
And  half  in  March,  perhaps,  I  can  get  through. 
And  when  I  finish  I  shall  go  to  work 
And  pay  you  back,  I  want  it  as  a  loan, 
And  do  not  ask  it  for  a  gift."     She  sat, 
And  fingered  at  her  dress  while  asking  him, 
And  Arthur  Fouche  looked  at  her.     Come  to  think 
He  was  toward  eighty  then.     At  last  he  said: 
"  I  wish  I  could  do  what  you  ask  me,  Elenor, 
But  there  are  several  things.     You  see,  my  child, 
I  have  been  through  this  thing  of  educating 
A  family  of  children,  lived  my  life 
In  that  regard,  and  so  have  done  my  part. 
I  sent  your  mother  to  St.  Mary's,  sent 
The  rest  of  them  wherever  they  desired. 
And  that's  what  every  father  owes  his  children. 
[161] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  when  he  does  it,  he  has  done  his  duty. 

I'm  sorry  that  your  father  cannot  help  you, 

And  I  would  help  you,  though  I've  done  my  duty 

By  those  to  whom  I  owed  it;  but  you  see 

Your  uncle  and  myself  are  partners  buying 

And  selling  cattle,  and  the  business  lags. 

We  do  not  profit  much,  and  all  the  money 

I  have  in  bank  is  needed  for  this  business. 

We  buy  the  cattle,  and  we  buy  the  corn,  ! 

Then  we  run  short  of  corn ;  and  now  and  then 

I  have  to  ask  the  bank  to  lend  us  money, 

And  give  my  note.     Last  month  I  borrowed  money!  " 

And  so  the  old  man  talked.     And  as  I  looked 

I  saw  the  tears  run  down  her  cheeks.     She  sat 

And  looked  as  if  she  didn't  believe  him. 

No, 

Why  should  she  ?     For  I  do  not  understand 
Why  in  a  case  like  this,  a  man  who's  worth, 
Say  fifty  thousand  dollars  couldn't  spare 
Two  hundred  dollars  by  the  year.     Let's  see: 
He  might  have  bought  less  corn  or  cattle,  gambled 
On  lucky  sales  of  cattle  —  there's  a  way 
To  do  a  big  thing  when  you  have  the  eyes 
To  see  how  big  it  is ;  and  as  for  me, 
If  money  must  be  lost,  I'd  rather  lose  it 
On  Elenor  Murray  than  on  cattle.     In  fact, 
That's  where  the  money  went,  as  I  have  said. 
And  Elenor  Murray  went  away  and  earned 
Two  terms  at  college,  and  this  worthless  son 


GOTTLIEB  GERALD 

Ate  up  and  spent  the  money.     All  of  them, 
The  son  and  Arthur  Fouche  and  Elenor  Murray 
Are  gone  to  dust,  now,  like  the  garden  things 
That  sprout  up,  fall  and  rot. 

At  times  it  seems 

All  waste  to  me,  no  matter  what  you  do 
For  self  or  others,  unless  you  think  of  turnips 
Which  can't  be  much  to  turnips,  but  are  good 
For  us  who  raise  them.     Here's  my  story  then, 
Good  wishes  to  you,  Coroner  Merival. 


Coroner  Merival  heard  that  Gottlieb  Gerald 
Knew  Elenor  Murray  and  her  family  life; 
And  knew  her  love  for  music,  how  she  tried 
To  play  on  the  piano.     On  an  evening 
He  went  with  Winthrop  Marion  to  the  place, — 
Llewellyn  George  dropped  in  to  hear,  as  well  — 
Where  Gottlieb  Gerald  sold  pianos  —  dreamed, 
Read  Kant  at  times,  a  scholar,  but  a  failure, 
His  life  a  waste  in  business.     Gottlieb  Gerald 
Spoke  to  them  in  these  words :  — 


GOTTLIEB  GERALD 

I  knew  her,  why  of  course.     And  you  want  me? 
What  can  I  say?     I  don't  know  how  she  died. 
I  know  what  people  say.     But  if  you  want 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

To  hear  about  her,  as  I  knew  the  girl, 

Sit  down  a  minute.     Wait,  a  customer!   .  .  . 

It  was  a  fellow  with  a  bill,  these  fellows 

Who  come  for  money  make  me  smile.     Good  God ! 

Where  shall  I  get  the  money,  when  pianos, 

Such  as  I  make,  are  devilish  hard  to  sell? 

Now  listen  to  this  tune!     Dumm,  dumm,  dumm,  dumm, 

How's  that  for  quality,  sweet  clear  and  pure? 

Now  listen  to  these  chords  I  take  from  Bach ! 

Oh  no,  I  never  played  much,  just  for  self. 

Well,  you  might  say  my  passion  for  this  work 

Is  due  to  this:     I  pick  the  wire  strings, 

The  spruce  boards  and  all  that  for  instruments 

That  suit  my  ear  at  last.     When  I  have  built 

A  piano,  then  I  sit  and  play  upon  it, 

And  find  forgetfulness  and  rapture  through  it. 

And  well  I  need  forgetfulness,  for  the  bills 

Are  never  paid,  collectors  always  come. 

I  keep  a  little  lawyer  almost  busy, 

Lest  some  one  get  a  judgment,  levy  a  writ 

Upon  my  prizes  here,  this  one  in  chief. 

Oh,  well,  I  pay  at  last,  I  always  pay, 

But  I  must  have  my  time.     And  in  the  days 

When  these  collectors  swarm  too  much  I  find 

Oblivion  in  music,  run  my  hands 

Over  the  keys  I've  tuned.     I  wish  I  had 

Some  life  of  Cristofori,  just  to  see 

If  he  was  dodging  bills  when  tuning  strings. 

Perhaps  that  Silberman  who  made  pianos 

For  Frederick  the  Great  had  money  enough, 


GOTTLIEB  GERALD 

And  needed  no  oblivion  from  bills. 

You  see  I'm  getting  old  now,  sixty-eight; 

And  this  I  say,  that  life  is  far  too  short 

For  man  to  use  his  conquests  and  his  wisdoms. 

This  spirit,  mind,  is  a  machine,  piano, 

And  has  its  laws  of  harmony  and  use. 

Well,  it  seems  funny  that  a  man  just  learns 

The  secrets  of  his  being,  how  to  love, 

How  to  forget,  what  to  select,  what  life 

Is  natural  to  him,  and  only  living 

According  to  one's  nature  is  increase  — 

All  else  is  waste  —  when  wind  blows  on  your  back. 

Just  as  I  sit  sometimes  when  these  collectors 

Come  in  on  me  —  and  so  you  find  it's  Death, 

Who  levies  on  your  life;  no  little  lawyer 

Can  keep  him  off  with  stays  of  execution, 

Or  supersedeas,  I  think  it  is. 

Well,  as  I  said,  a  man  must  live  his  nature, 

And  dump  the  rules;  this  Christianity 

Makes  people  wear  steel  corsets  to  grow  straight, 

And  they  don't  grow  so,  for  they  scarcely  breathe, 

They're  laced  so  tight ;  and  all  their  vital  organs 

Are  piled  up  and  repressed  until  they  groan. 

Then  what?     They  lace  up  tighter,  till  the  blood 

Stops  in  the  veins  and  numbness  comes  upon  them. 

Oblivion  it  may  be  —  but  give  me  music ! 

Oh  yes,  this  girl,  Elenor  Murray,  well 
This  talk  about  her  home  is  half  and  half, 
Part  true,  part  false.     Her  daddy  nips  a  little, 

[165] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Has  always  done  so.     Like  myself,  the  bills 
Have  always  deviled  him.     But  just  the  same 
That  home  was  not  so  bad.     Some  years  ago, 
She  was  a  little  girl  of  thirteen  maybe, 
Her  father  rented  one  of  my  pianos 
For  Elenor  to  learn  on,  and  of  course 
The  rent  was  always  back,  I  didn't  care, 
Except  for  my  collectors,  and  besides 
She  was  so  nice.     So  music  hungry,  practiced 
So  hard  to  learn,  I  used  to  let  the  rent 
Run  just  as  long  as  I  could  let  it  run. 
And  even  then  I  used  to  feel  ashamed 
To  ask  her  father  for  it. 

As  I  said 

She  was  thirteen,  and  one  Thanksgiving  day 
They  asked  me  there  to  dinner,  and  I  went, 
Brushed  off  my  other  coat  and  shaved  myself, 
I  looked  all  right,  my  shoes  were  polished  too. 
You'd  never  think  I  polished  them  to  look 
At  these  to-day.     And  now  I  tell  you  what 
I  saw  myself:  nice  linen  on  the  table, 
And  pretty  silver,  plated,  I  suppose; 
Good  glass-ware,  and  a  dinner  that  was  splendid, 
Wine  made  from  wild  grapes  spiced  with  cinnamon, 
It  had  a  kick,  too.     And  the  home  was  furnished 
Like  what  you'd  think:  good  carpets,  chairs,  a  lounge, 
Some  pictures  on  the  wall  —  all  good  enough. 
And  this  girl  was  as  lively  as  a  cricket, 
She  was  the  liveliest  thing  I  ever  saw; 
[166] 


GOTTLIEB  GERALD 

And  that's  what  ailed  her,  if  you  want  my  word. 
She  had  more  life  than  she  knew  how  to  use, 
And  had  not  learned  her  own  machine. 


And  after 

We  had  the  dinner  we  came  in  the  parlor. 
And  then  her  mother  asked  her  to  play  something, 
And  she  sat  down  and  played  tra-la;  tra-la, 
One  of  these  waltzes,  I  remember  now 
As  pretty  as  these  verses  in  the  paper 
On  love,  or  something  sentimental.     Yes, 
She  played  it  well.     For  I  had  rented  them 
One  of  my  pets.     They  asked  me  then  to  play 
And  I  tried  out  some  Bach  and  other  things, 
And  improvised.     And  Elenor  stood  by, 
And  asked  what's  that  when  I  was  improvising. 
I  laughed  and  said,  Sonata  of  Starved  Rock, 
Or  Deer  Park  Glen  in  Winter,  anything  — 
She  looked  at  me  with  eyes  as  big  as  that. 

Well,  as  I  said,  the  home  was  good  enough. 
Still  like  myself  with  these  collectors,  Elenor 
Was  bothered,  drawn  aside,  and  scratched  no  doubt 
From  walking  through  the  briars.     Just  the  same 
The  trouble  with  her  life,  if  it  was  trouble, 
And  no  musician  would  regard  it  trouble, 
The  trouble  was  her  nature  strove  to  be 
All  fire,  and  subtilize  to  the  essence  of  fire, 
Which  was  her  nature's  law,  and  Nature's  law, 

[167] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  only  normal  law,  as  I  have  found ; 

For  so  Canudo  says,  as  I  read  lately, 

Who  gave  me  words  for  what  I  knew  from  life. 

Now  if  you  want  my  theories  I  go  on. 
You  do?     All  right.     What  was  this  Elenor  Murray? 
She  was  the  lover,  do  you  understand? 
She  had  her  lovers  maybe,  I  don't  know, 
That's  not  the  point  with  lovers,  any  mdre, 
Than  it's  the  point  to  have  pianos  —  no! 
Lovers,  pianos  are  the  self-same  thing; 
Instruments  for  the  soul,  the  source  of  fire, 
The  crucible  for  flames  that  turn  from  red 
To  blue,  then  white,  then  fierce  transparencies. 
Then  if  the  lover  be  not  known  by  lovers 
How  is  she  known  ?     Why  think  of  Elenor  Murray, 
Who  tries  all  things  and  educates  herself, 
Goes  traveling,  would  sing  and  play,  becomes 
A  member  of  a  church  with  ritual,  music, 
Incense  and  color,  things  that  steal  the  senses, 
And  bring  oblivion.     Don't  you  see  the  girl 
Moving  her  soul  to  find  her  soul,  and  passing 
Through  loves  and  hatreds,  seeking  everywhere 
Herself  she  loved,  in  others,  agonizing 
For  hate  of  father,  so  they  tell  me  now? 
But  first  because  she  hated  in  herself 
What  lineaments  of  her  father  she  saw  in  self. 
And  all  the  while,  I  think,  she  strove  to  conquer 
This  hatred,  every  hatred,  sensing  freedom 
For  her  own  soul  through  liberating  self 
[168] 


GOTTLIEB  GERALD 

From  hatreds.     So,  you  see  how  someone  near, 
Repugnant,  disesteemed,  may  furnish  strength 
And  vision,  too,  by  gazing  on  that  one 
From  day  to  day,  not  to  be  like  that  one: 
And  so  our  hatreds  help  us,  those  we  hate 
Become  our  saviors. 

Here's  the  problem  now 
In  finding  self,  the  soul  —  it's  with  ourselves, 
Within  ourselves  throughout  the  ticklish  quest 
From  first  to  last,  and  lovers  and  pianos 
Are  instruments  of  salvation,  yet  they  take 
The  self  but  to  the  self,  and  say  now  find, 
Explore  and  know.     And  then,  as  all  before, 
The  problem  is  how  much  of  mind  to  use, 
How  much  of  instinct,  phototropic  sense, 
That  turns  instinctively  to  light  —  green  worms 
More  plant  than  animal  are  eyes  all  over 
Because  their  bodies  know  the  light,  no  eyes 
Where  sight  is  centralized.     I've  found  it  now: 
What  is  the  intellect  but  eyes,  where  sight 
Is  gathered  in  two  spheres?     The  more  they're  used 
The  darker  is  the  body  of  the  soul. 
Now  to  digress,  that's  why  the  Germans  lost, 
They  used  the  intellect  too  much ;  they  took 
The  sea  of  life  and  tried  to  dam  it  in, 
Or  use  it  for  canals  or  water  power, 
Or  make  a  card-case  system  of  it,  maybe, 
To  keep  collectors  off,  have  all  run  smoothly, 
And  make  a  sure  thing  of  it. 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

To  return 

How  much  did  Elenor  Murray  use  her  mind, 
How  much  her  instincts,  leave  herself  alone 
Let  nature  have  its  way  ?     I  think  I  know : 

But  first  you  have  the  artist  soul ;  and  next 

The  soul  half  artist,  prisoned  usually 

In  limitations  where  the  soul,  half  artist 

Between  depressions  and  discouragements 

Rises  in  hope  and  knocks.     Why,  I  can  tell  them 

The  moment  they  touch  keys  or  talk  to  me. 

I  hear  their  knuckles  knocking  on  the  walls, 

Insuperable  partitions  made  of  wood, 

When  seeking  tones  or  words;  they  have  the  hint, 

But  cannot  open,  manifest  themselves. 

So  was  it  with  this  girl,  she  was  all  lover, 

Half  artist,  what  a  torture  for  a  soul, 

And  what  escape  for  her !     She  could  not  play, 

Had  never  played,  no  matter  what  the  chance. 

I  think  there  is  no  curse  like  being  dumb 

When  every  waking  moment,  every  dream 

Keeps  crying  to  speak  out.     This  is  her  case : 

The  girl  was  dumb,  like  that  dumb  woman  here 

Whose  dress  caught  fire,  and  in  the  dining  room 

Was  burned  to  death  while  all  her  family 

Were  in  the  house,  to  whom  she  could  not  cry! 

You  asked  about  her  going  to  the  war, 

Her  sacrifice  in  that  and  if  I  think 

She  found  expression  there  —  yes,  of  a  kind, 

[170] 


GOTTLIEB  GERALD 

But  not  the  kind  she  hungered  for,  not  music. 
She  found  adventure  there,  excitement  too. 
That  uses  up  the  soul's  power,  takes  the  place 
Of  better  self-expression.     But  you  see 
I  do  not  think  self-immolation  life, 
I  know  it  to  be  death.     Now,  look  a  minute: 
Why  did  she  join  the  church?  why  to  forget! 
Why  did  she  go  to  war?  why  to  forget. 
And  at  the  last,  this  thing  called  sacrifice 
Rose  up  with  meaning  in  her  eyes.     You  see 
They  tell  around  here  now  she  often  said : 
"  I'm  going  to  the  war  to  be  swept  under." 
Now  comes  your  Christian  idea:     Let  me  die, 
But  die  in  service  of  the  race,  in  giving 
I  waste  myself  for  others,  give  myself! 
Let  God  take  notice,  and  reward  the  gift! 
This  is  the  failure's  recourse  often-times, 
A  prodigal  flinging  of  the  self  —  let  God 
Find  what  He  can  of  good,  or  find  all  good. 
I  have  abandoned  all  control,  all  thought 
Of  finding  my  soul  otherwise,  if  here 
I  find  my  soul,  a  doubt  that  makes  the  gift 
Not  less  abandoned. 

This  is  foolish  talk 
I  know  you  think,  I  think  it  is  myself, 
At  least  in  part.     I  know  I'm  right,  however, 
In  guessing  off  the  reason  of  her  failure, 
If  failure  it  is.     But  pshaw,  why  talk  of  failure 
About  a  woman  born  to  live  the  life 

[171] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

She  lived,  which  could  not  have  been  different, 

Much  different  under  any  circumstance? 

She  might  have  married,  had  a  home  and  children, 

What  of  it?     As  it  is  she  makes  a  story, 

A  flute  sound  in  our  symphony  —  all  right ! 

And  I  confess,  in  spite  of  all  I've  said, 

The  profit,  the  success,  may  not  be  known 

To  any  but  one's  self.     Now  look  at  me, 

By  all  accounts  I  am  a  failure  —  look ! 

For  forty  years  just  making  poor  ends  meet, 

My  love  all  spent  in  making  good  pianos. 

I  thrill  all  over  picking  spruce  and  wires, 

And  putting  them  together  —  all  my  love 

Gone  into  this,  no  head  at  all  for  business. 

I  keep  no  books,  they  cheat  me  out  of  rent. 

I  don't  know  how  to  sell  pianos,  when 

I  sell  one  I  have  trouble  oftentimes 

In  getting  pay  for  it.     But  just  the  same 

I  sit  here  with  myself,  I  know  myself, 

I've  found  myself,  and  when  collectors  come 

I  can  say  come  to-morrow,  turn  about, 

And  run  the  scale,  or  improvise,  and  smile, 

Forget  the  world! 


The  three  arose  and  left. 
Llewellyn  George  said:  "That's  a  rarity, 
That  man  is  like  a  precious  flower  you  find 
Way  off  among  the  weeds  and  rocky  soil, 
Grown  from  a  seed  blown  out  of  paradise; 
I  want  to  call  again." 

[172] 


LILLI  ALM 

So  thus  they  knew 

This  much  of  Elenor  Murray's  music  life. 
But  on  a  day  a  party  talk  at  tea, 
Of  Elenor  Murray  and  her  singing  voice 
And  how  she  tried  to  train  it  —  just  a  riffle 
Which  passed  unknown  of  Merival.     For  you  know 
Your  name  may  come  up  in  a  thousand  places 
At  earth's  ends,  though  you  live,  and  do  not  die 
And  make  a  great  sensation  for  a  day. 
And  all  unknown  to  Merival  for  good 
This  talk  of  Lilli  Aim  and  Ludwig  Haibt : 


LILLI  ALM 

In  Lola  Schaefer's  studio  in  the  Tower, 
Tea  being  served  to  painters,  poets,  singers, 
Herr  Ludwig  Haibt,  a  none  too  welcome  guest, 
Of  vital  body,  brisk,  too  loud  of  voice, 
And  Lilli  Aim  crossed  swords. 

It  came  about 

When  Ludwig  Haibt  said:  "  Have  you  read  the  papers 
About  this  Elenor  Murray?  "     And  then  saiu: 
"  I  tried  to  train  her  voice  —  she  was  a  failure." 
And  Lilli  Aim  who  taught  the  art  of  song 
Looked  at  him  half  contemptuous  and  said: 
"  Why  did  she  fail?  "     To  which  Herr  Ludwig  answered 
"  She  tried  too  hard.     She  made  her  throat  too  tense, 

[173] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  made  its  muscles  stiff  by  too  much  thought, 
Anxiety  for  song,  the  vocal  triumph." 

"  O,  yes,  I  understand,"  said  Lilli  Aim. 

Then  stabbing  him  she  added,  "  since  you  dropped 

The  Perfect  Institute,  and  dropped  the  idea 

Which  stresses  training  muscles  of  the  tongue, 

And  all  that  thing,  be  fair  and  shoulder  half 

The  failure  of  poor  Elenor  Murray  on 

Your  system's  failure.     For  I  chanced  to  know 

The  girl  myself.     She  started  work  with  me, 

And  I  am  sure  that  if  I  had  been  able  — 

With  time  enough  I  could  have  done  it  too  — 

To  rid  her  mind  of  muscles  and  to  fix 

The  thought  alone  of  music  in  her  mind, 

She  would  have  sung.     Now  listen,  Ludwig  Haibt, 

You've  come  around  to  see  that  song's  the  thing. 

I  take  a  pupil  and  I  say  to  her: 

The  mind  must  fix  itself  on  music,  say 

I  would  make  song,  pure  tones  and  beautiful ; 

That  comes  from  spirit,  from  the  Plato  rapture, 

Which  gets  the  idea.     It  is  well  to  know 

Some  physiology,  I  grant,  to  know 

When,  how  to  move  the  vocal  organs,  feel 

How  they  are  moving,  through  the  ear  to  place 

These  organs  in  relation,  and  to  know 

The  soft  palate  is  drawn  against  the  hard; 

The  tongue  can  take  positions  numerous, 

Can  be  used  at  the  root,  a  throaty  voice; 

Or  with  the  tip,  produce  expressiveness. 


LILLI  ALM 

But  what  must  we  avoid  ?  —  rigidity. 

And  if  that  girl  was  over-zealous,  then 

So  much  the  more  her  teaching  should  have  kept 

Mind  off  the  larynx  and  the  tongue,  and  fixed 

Upon  the  spiritual  matters,  so  to  give 

The  snake-like  power  of  loosening,  contracting 

The  muscles  used  for  singing.     Ludwig  Haibt, 

I  can  forgive  your  system,  since  abandoned, 

I  can't  forgive  your  words  to-day  who  say 

This  woman  failed  for  trying  over  much, 

When  I  know  that  your  system  made  her  throw 

An  energy  truly  wonderful  on  muscles; 

And  when  I  think  of  your  book  where  you  said : 

The  singing  voice  is  the  result,  observe 

Of  physical  conditions,  like  the  strings 

Or  tubes  of  brass.     While  granting  that  it's  well 

To  know  the  art  of  tuning  up  the  strings, 

And  how  to  place  them ;  after  all  the  art 

Of  tuning  and  of  placing  comes  from  mind, 

The  idea,  and  the  art  of  making  song 

Is  just  the  breathing  of  the  perfect  spirit 

Upon  the  strings.     The  throat  is  but  the  leaves, 

Let  them  be  flexible,  the  mouth's  the  flower, 

The  tone  the  perfume.     And  your  olden  way 

Of  harping  on  the  larynx  —  well,  since  you 

Turned  from  it,  I'm  ungenerous  perhaps 

To  scold  you  thus  to-day. 

But  this  I  say, 

Let  us  be  frank  as  teachers:  Take  the  fetich 
[i75l 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Of  breathing  and  see  how  you  cripple  talent, 

Or  take  that  matter  of  the  laryngyscope, 

Whereby  you  photograph  a  singer's  throat, 

Caruso's,  Galli  Curd's  at  the  moment 

Of  greatest  beauty  in  song,  and  thus  preserve 

In  photographs  before  you  how  the  muscles 

Looked  and  were  placed  that  moment.     Then  attempt 

To  get  the  like  effect  by  placing  them 

In  similar  fashion.     Oh,  you  know,  Herr  Ludwig, 

These  fetiches  go  by.     One  thing  remains: 

The  idea  in  the  soul  of  beauty,  music, 

The  hope  to  give  it  forth. 


Alas!  to  think 

So  many  souls  are  wasted  while  we  teach 
This  thing  or  that.     The  strong  survive,  of  course. 
But  take  this  Elenor  Murray  —  why,  that  girl 
Was  just  a  flame,  I  never  saw  such  hunger 
For  self-development,  and  beauty,  richness, 
In  all  experience  in  life  —  I  knew  her, 
That's  why  I  say  so  —  take  her  as  I  say, 
And  put  her  to  a  practice  —  yours  we'll  say  — 
Where  this  great  zeal  she  had  is  turned  and  pressed 
Upon  the  physical,  just  the  very  thing 
To  make  her  throat  constrict,  and  fill  her  up 
With  over  anxiety  and  make  her  fail. 
When  had  she  come  to  me  at  first  this  passion 
Directed  to  the  beauty,  the  idea 
Had  put  her  soul  at  ease  to  ease  her  body, 

[176] 


LILLI  ALM 

Which  gradually  and  beautifully  had  answered 
That  flame  of  hers. 


Well,  Ludwig  Haibt,  you're  punished 
For  wasting  several  years  upon  a  system 
Since  put  away  as  half  erroneous, 
If  not  quite  worthless.     But  I  must  confess, 
Since  I  have  censured  you,  to  my  own  sin. 
This  girl  ran  out  of  money,  came  to  me 
And  told  me  so.     To  which  I  said:  "  Too  bad, 
You  will  have  money  later,  when  you  do, 
Come  back  to  me."     She  stood  a  silent  moment, 
Her  hand  upon  the  knob,  I  saw  her  tears, 
Just  little  dim  tears,  then  she  said  good-bye 
And  vanished  from  me. 


Well,  I  now  repent. 
I  who  have  thought  of  beauty  all  my  life, 
And  taught  the  art  of  sound  made  beautiful, 
Let  slip  a  chance  for  beauty  —  why,  I  think, 
A  beauty  just  as  great  as  song!     You  see 
I  had  a  chance  to  serve  a  hungering  soul  — 
I  could  have  said  just  let  the  money  go, 
Or  let  it  go  until  you  get  the  money. 
I  let  that  chance  for  beauty  slip.     Even  now 
I  see  poor  Elenor  Murray  at  the  door, 
Who  paused,  no  doubt,  in  hope  that  I  would  say 
What  I  thought  not  to  say. 

[177] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

So,  Ludwig  Haibt, 

We  are  a  poor  lot  —  let  us  have  some  tea ! 
"  We  are  a  poor  lot,"  Ludwig  Haibt  replied. 
"  But  since  this  is  confessional,  I  absolve  you, 
If  you'll  permit  me,  from  your  sin.     Will  you 
Absolve  me,  if  I  say  I'm  sorry  too? 
I'll  tell  you  something,  it  is  really  true :  — 
I  changed  my  system  more  I  think  because 
Of  what  I  learned  from  teaching  Elenor  Murray 
Than  on  account  of  any  other  person. 
She  demonstrated  better  where  my  system 
Was  lacking  than  all  pupils  that  I  had. 
And  so  I  changed  it;  and  of  course  I  say 
The  thing  is  music,  just  as  poets  say 
The  thing  is  beauty,  not  the  rhyme  and  words, 
With  which  they  bring  it,  instruments  that's  all, 
And  not  the  thing  —  but  beauty." 

So  they  talked, 

Forgave  each  other.     And  that  very  day 
Two  priests  were  talking  of  confessionals 
A  mile  or  so  from  the  Tower,  where  Lilli  Aim 
And  Ludwig  Haibt  were  having  tea.     You  say 
The  coroner  was  ignorant  of  this! 
What  is  the  part  it  plays  with  Elenor  Murray? 
Or  with  the  inquest  ?     Wait  a  little  yet 
And  see  if  Merival  has  told  to  him 
What  thing  of  value  touching  Elenor  Murray 
Is  lodged  in  Father  Whimsett's  heart  or  words. 


FATHER  WHIMSETT 


FATHER  WHIMSETT 

Looking  like  Raphael's  Perugino,  eyes 

So  slightly,  subtly  aquiline,  as  brown 

As  a  buck-eye,  amorous,  flamed,  but  lightly  dimmed 

Through  thought  of  self  while  sitting  for  the  artist ; 

A  nose  well  bridged  with  bone  for  will,  the  nostrils 

Distended  as  if  sniffing  diaphanous  fire; 

A  very  bow  for  lips,  the  under  lip 

Rich,  kissable  like  a  woman's;  heavy  cheeks 

Propped  with  a  rounded  tower  of  flesh  for  neck: 

Thus  Perugino  looked,  says  Raphael, 

And  thus  looked  Father  Whimsett  at  his  desk, 

With  vertical  creases,  where  the  nose  and  brow 

Together  come,  between  the  eye-brows  slanting 

Unequally,  half  clown-wise,  half  Mephisto, 

With  just  a  touch  of  that  abandoned  humor, 

And  laughter  at  the  world,  the  race  of  men, 

Mephisto  had  for  mischief,  which  the  priest 

Has  for  a  sense  which  looks  upon  the  dream 

And  smiles,  yet  pities  those  who  move  in  it. 

And  Father  Whimsett  smokes  and  reads  and  smiles. 

He  soon  will  hold  confessional.     For  days 

He  has  heard  nothing  but  complaints  of  lovers, 

And  searched  for  nullities,  impediments, 

Through  which  to  give  sore  stricken  hearts  relief : 

There  was  the  youth  too  drunk  to  know  he  married 

A  woman  never  baptized.     Now  the  youth 

Has  found  another  —  oh  this  is  the  one! 

[179] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  comes  and  says:  Oh,  holy  father,  help  me, 
May  I  be  free  to  marry  her  I  love, 
And  get  the  church's  blessing  when  a  court 
Dissolves  the  civil  contract?     Holy  Father, 
I  knew  not  what  I  did,  cannot  remember 
Where  I  was  married,  when,  my  mind's  a  blank 
It  was  the  drink,  you  know. 

And  so;  it  goes, 

The  will  is  eyeless  through  concupiscence, 
And  that  absolves  the  soul  that's  penitent. 
And  Father  Whimsett  reads  his  Latin  books, 
Searches  for  subtleties  for  faithful  souls, 
Whereby  the  faithful  souls  may  have  their  wish, 
Yet  keep  the  gospel,  too. 

These  Latin  books 

Leave  him  fatigued,  but  not  fatigued  to  turn 
Plotinus,  Xenophon,  Boccacio, 
Ars  Amatoria  and  Remedia  Amoris. 
And  just  this  moment  Father  Whimsett  reads 
Catullus,  killing  time,  before  he  hears 
Confession,  gets  the  music  of  Catullus 
Along  the  light  that  enters  at  the  eye : 
Etherial  strings  plucked  by  the  intellect 
To  vibrate  to  the  inner  ear.     At  times 
He  must  re-light  his  half-forgot  cigar. 
And  while  the  music  of  the  Latin  verse, 
Which  is  an  echo,  as  he  stops  to  light 
His  half -forgot  cigar,  is   wafted  through 
[180] 


FATHER  WHIMSETT 

His  meditation,  as  a  tune  is  heard 
After  the  keys  are  stayed,  it  blends,  becomes 
The  soul,  interpretation  of  these  stories, 
Which  lovers  tell  him  in  these  later  days. 
And  now  the  clock  upon  the  mantel  chimes 
The  quarter  of  the  hour.     Up  goes  Catullus 
By  Ovid  on  the  shelf.     The  dead  cigar 
Is  thrown  away.     He  rises  from  the  chair  — 
When  Father  Conway  enters,  just  to  visit 
Some  idle  moments,  smoke  and  have  a  talk. 
And  Father  Whimsett  takes  his  seat  again, 
Waves  Father  Conway  to  a  comfort  chair, 
Says  "  Have  a  smoke,"  and  Father  Conway  smokes, 
And  sees  Catullus,  says  you  read  Catullus, 
And  lays  the  morning  Times  upon  the  table, 
And  says  to  Father  Whimsett:  "  Every  day 
The  Times  has  stories  better  than  Catullus, 
And  episodes  which  Horace  would  have  used. 
I  wish  we  had  a  poet  who  would  take 
This  city  of  Chicago,  write  it  up, 
The  old  Chicago,  and  the  new  Chicago, 
The  race  track,  old  cafes  and  gambling  places, 
The  prize  rights,  wrestling  matches,  sporting  houses, 
As  Horace  wrote  up  Rome.     Or  if  we  had 
A  Virgil  he  would  find  an  epic  theme 
In  this  American  matter,  t)^pical 
Of  our  America,  one  phase  or  more 
Concerning  Elenor  Murray.     Here  to-day 
There  is  a  story,  of  some  letters  found 
In  Arthur  Fouche's  mansion,  under  the  floor, 
[181] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 
Sensational,  dramatic. 

Father  Whimsett 

Looked  steadily  at  Father  Conway,  blew 
A  funnel  of  tobacco  smoke  and  said : 
I  scarcely  read  the  Times  these  days,  too  busy  — 
I've  had  a  run  of  rich  confessionals. 
The  war  is  ended,  but  they  still  come  on, 
And  most  are  lovers  in  the  coils  of  love. 
I  had  one  yesterday  that  made  me  think 
Of  one  I  had  a  year  ago  last  spring, 
The  point  was  this:  they  say  forgive  me  father, 
For  I  have  sinned,  then  as  the  case  proceeds 
A  greater  sin  comes  forth,  I  mean  the  sin 
Of  saying  sin  is  good,  cannot  be  sin : 
I  loved  the  man,  or  how  can  love  be  sin? 
Well,  as  a  human  soul  I  see  the  point, 
But  have  no  option,  must  lay  to  and  say 
Acknowledgment,  contrition  and  the  promise 
To  sin  no  more,  is  necessary  to 
Win  absolution.     Now  to  show  the  matter, 
Here  comes  a  woman,  says  I  leave  for  France 
To  serve,  to  die.     I  have  a  premonition 
That  I  shall  die  abroad ;  or  if  I  live, 
I  have  had  fears,  I  shall  be  taken,  wronged, 
So  driven  by  this  honor  to  destroy 
Myself,  goes  on  and  says,  I  tell  you  all 
These  fears  of  mine  that  you  may  search  my  heart, 
More  gladly  may  absolve  me.     Then  she  says, 
These  fears  worked  in  my  soul  until  I  took 


FATHER  WHIMSETT 

The  step  which  I  confess,  before  I  leave. 
I  wait  and  she  proceeds : 

"  O,  holy  father, 

There  is  a  man  whom  I  have  loved  for  years, 
These  five  years  past,  such  hopeless,  happy  years. 
I  love  him  and  he  loves  me,  holy  father. 
He  holds  me  sacred  as  his  wife,  he  loves  me 
With  the  most  holy  love.     It  cannot  be 
That  any  love  like  ours  is  guilty  love, 
Can  have  no  other  quality  than  good, 
If  it  be  love." 

Well,  here's  a  pretty  soul 
To  sit  in  the  confessional !     So  I  say, 
Why  do  you  come  to  me?     Loving  your  sin, 
Confessing  it,  denying  it  in  one  breath, 
Leaves  you  in  sin  without  forgiveness. 
Well,  then  she  tacks  about  and  says  "  I  sinned, 
And  I  am  sorry.     Wait  a  minute,  father, 
And  see  the  flesh  and  spirit  mixed  again." 
She  wants  to  tell  me  all,  I  let  her  go. 
And  so  she  says:  "  His  wife's  an  invalid, 
Has  been  no  wife  to  him.     Besides,"  she  says  — 
Now  watch  this  thrust  to  pierce  my  holy  shield  • 
"  She  is  not  in  the  church's  eye  his  wife, 
She  never  was  baptized  " —  I  almost  laughed, 
But  answered  her,  You  think  adultery 
Is  less  adultery  in  a  case  like  this? 
"  Well,  no,"  she  says,  "  but  could  he  be  divorced 
[183] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  church  would  marry  us."     Go  on,  I  said, 

And  then  she  paused  a  little  and  went  on: 

"  I  said  I  loved  this  man,  and  it  is  true, 

And  years  ago  I  gave  myself  to  him, 

And  then  his  wife  found  out  there  was  a  woman  — 

But  not  that  I  was  the  woman  —  years  ago 

At  confirmation  I  confessed  it  all, 

Need  only  say  this  time  I  gave  him  up, 

And  crushed  him  out  with  work  —  was  chaste  for  yean 

And  then  I  met  a  man,  a  different  man 

Who  stirred  me  otherwise,  kept  after  me. 

At  last  I  weakened,  sinned  three  months  ago, 

And  suffered  for  it.     For  he  took  me,  left  me. 

As  if  he  wanted  body  of  me  alone, 

And  was  not  pleased  with  that.     And  after  that, 

I  think  that  I  was  mad,  a  furious  passion 

Was  kindled  by  this  second  man,  and  left 

With  nothing  to  employ  its  flame.     Two  weeks 

Went  by,  he  did  not  seek  me  out,  none  knew 

The  hour  of  our  departure.     Then  I  thought 

How  little  I  had  been  to  this  first  lover, 

And  of  the  years  when  I  denied  him  —  so 

To  recompense  his  love,  to  serve  him,  father, 

Yes,  to  allay  this  passion  newly  raised 

By  this  new  lover,  whom  I  thought  I  loved, 

I  went  to  my  old  lover,  free  of  will, 

And  took  his  lips  and  said  to  him,  O  take  me, 

I  am  yours  to  do  with  as  you  choose  to-night. 

He  turned  as  pale  as  snow  and  shook  with  fear, 

His  heart  beat  in  this  throat.     I  terrified  him 


FATHER  WHIMSETT 

With  this  great  will  of  mine  in  this  small  body. 
I  went  on  while  he  stood  there  by  the  window, 
His  back  toward  me.     Make  me  wholly  yours, 
Take  no  precaution,  prudence  throw  away 
As  mean,  unworthy.     Let  your  life  precede, 
Forestall  the  intruder's,  if  one  be.     And  if 
A  child  must  be,  yours  shall  it  be." 

"  He  turned, 
And  took  me  in  his  arms.  ..." 

"  And  so  to  make 

As  nearly  as  might  be  a  marriage,  father, 
I  took  —  but  let  me  tell  you :  I  had  thought 
His  wife  might  die  at  any  time,  so  thinking 
During  these  years  I  had  bought  bridal  things  ; 
A  veil,  embroideries,  silk  lingerie. 
And  I  took  to  our  room  my  negligee, 
Boudoir  cap,  satin  slippers,  so  to  make 
All  beautiful  as  we  were  married,  father. 
How  have  I  sinned?     I  cannot  deem  it  wrong. 
Do  I  not  soil  my  soul  with  penitence, 
And  smut  this  loveliness  with  penitence? 
Can  I  regret  my  work,  nor  take  a  hurt 
Upon  my  very  soul?     How  keep  it  clean 
Confessing  what  I  did  (if  I  thought  so) 
As  evil  and  unclean?  " 

The  devil  again 

Entered  with  casuistry,  as  you  perceive. 
[185] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  so  to  make  an  end,  I  said  to  her, 
You.  must  bring  to  this  sacrament  a  heart 
Contrite  and  humble,  promise  me  beside 
To  sin  no  more.     The  case  is  in  your  hands, 
You  can  confess  with  lips,  deny  with  heart, 
God  only  knows,  I  don't,  it's  on  your  soul 
To  speak  the  truth  or  lie  to  me.     Confess 
And  I'll  absolve  you. —  For  in  truth  my  heart 
Was  touched  by  what  she  said,  her  lovely  voice. 

But  now  the  story  deepened.     For  she  said, 

I  have  not  told  you  all.     And  she  renewed: 

"  Suppose  you  pack  your  trunk  and  have  your  lunch, 

Go  to  the  station,  but  no  train  arrives, 

And  there  you  wait  and  wait,  until  you're  hungry, 

And  nothing  to  do  but  wait,  no  place  to  lunch, 

You  cannot  leave  the  station,  lest  the  train 

Should  come  while  you  are  gone.     Well,  so  it  was, 

The  weeks  went  by,  and  still  we  were  not  called. 

And  I  had  closed  my  old  life,  sat  and  waited 

The  time  of  leaving  to  begin  new  life. 

And  after  I  had  sinned  with  my  first  lover, 

Parted  from  him,  said  farewell,  ended  it, 

Could  not  go  back  to  him,  at  least  could  think 

Of  no  way  to  return  that  would  not  dull 

The  hour  we  lived  together,  look,  this  man, 

This  second  lover  looks  me  up  again 

And  overwhelms  me  with  a  flaming  passion. 

It  seemed  he  had  thought  over  what  I  was, 

Become  all  fire  for  me.     He  came  to  me, 


FATHER  WHIMSETT 

And  said,  I  love  you,  bve  you,  looked  at  me, 
And  I  could  see  the  love-light  iri  his  eyes, 
The  light  that  woman  knows.     Well,  I  was  weak, 
Lonely  and  bored.     He  stirred  my  love  besides; 
And  then  a  curious  thought  came  in  my  brain: 
The  spirit  is  not  found  save  through  the  flesh, 

0  holy  father,  and  I  thought  to  self, 

Bring,  as  you  may,  these  trials  close  together 
In  point  of  time  and  see  where  spirit  is, 
Where  flesh  directs  to  spirit  most.     And  so 

1  went  with  him  again,  and  found  in  truth 
I  loved  him,  he  was  mine  and  I  was  his, 
We  two  were  for  each  other,  my  old  lover 
Was  just  my  love's  beginning,  not  my  love 
Fully  and  wholly,  rapturously,  this  man 
Body  and  spirit  harmonized  with  me. 

I  found  him  through  the  love  of  my  old  lover, 

And  knew  by  contrast,  memory  of  the  two 

And  this  immediate  comparison 

Of  spirits  and  of  bodies,  that  this  man 

Who  left  me,  whom  I  turned  from  to  the  first, 

As  I  have  tried  to  tell  you,  was  the  one. 

0  holy  father,  he  is  married,  too. 

And  as  I  leave  for  France  this  ends  as  well; 
No  child  in  me  from  either.     I  confess 
That  I  have  sinned  most  grievously,  I  repent 
And  promise  I  shall  sin  no  more." 

And  so, 

1  gave  her  absolution.     Well,  you  see 

[187] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  church  was  dark,  but  I  knew  who  it  was, 

I  knew  the  voice.     She  left.     Another  penitent 

Entered  with  a  story.     What  is  this? 

Here  is  a  woman  who's  promiscuous. 

Tried  number  one  and  then  tries  number  two, 

And  comes  and  tells  me,  she  has  taken  proof, 

Weighed  evidence  of  spirit  and  of  body, 

And  thinks  she  knows  at  last,  affirms  as  much. 

Such  conduct  will  not  do,  that's  plain  enough, 

Not  even  if  the  truth  of  love  is  known 

This  way,  no  other  way. 

Then  Father  Conway 
Began  as  follows:  "  I've  a  case  like  that, 
A  woman  married,  but  she  found  her  husband 
Was  just  the  cup  of  Tantulus  and  so.  .  .  ." 

But  Father  Whimsett  said,  "  Why,  look  at  that, 
I'm  over-due  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 
Come   in   to-morrow,   father,    tell   me   then." 
The  two  priests  rose  and  left  the  room  together. 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 

Carl  Eaton  and  John  Campbell  both  were  raised 
With  Elenor  Murray  in  LeRoy.     The  mother 
Of  Eaton  lived  there ;  but  these  boys  had  gone, 
Now  grown  to  manhood  to  Chicago,  where 
[188] 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 

They  kept  the  old  days  of  companionship. 

And  Mrs.  Eaton  saw  the  coroner, 

And  told  him  how  she  saved  her  son  from  Elenor, 

And  broke  their  troth  —  because  upon  a  time 

Elenor  Murray,  though  betrothed,  to  Carl 

Went  riding  with  John  Campbell,  and  returned 

At  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  drunk,  and  stood 

Helpless  and  weary,  holding  to  the  gate. 

For  which  she  broke  the  engagement  of  her  son 

To  Elenor  Murray.     That  was  truth  to  her, 

And  truth  to  Merival,  for  the  time,  at  least. 

But  this  John  Campbell  and  Carl  Eaton  meet 

One  evening  at  a  table  drinking  beer, 

And  talk  about  the  inquest,  Elenor; 

Since  much  is  published  in  the  Times  to  stir 

Their  memories  of  her.     And  John  speaks  up: 

"  Well,  Carl,  now  Elenor  Murray  is  no  more, 

And  we  are  friends  so  long,  I'd  like  to  know 

What  do  you  think  of  her?  " 

"  About  the  time, 

That  May  before  she  finished  High  School,  Elenor 
Broke  loose,  ran  wild,  do  you  remember,  Carl? 
She  had  some  trouble  in  her  home,  I  heard  — 
She  told  me  so.     That  Alma  Bell  affair 
Made  all  the  fellows  wonder,  as  you  know, 
What  kind  of  game  she  was,  if  she  was  game 
For  me,  or  vou,  or  anyone.     Besides 
She  had  flirting  eye,  a  winning  laugh, 
And  she  was  eighteen,  and  a  cherry  ripe. 

' 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

This  Alma  Bell  affair  and  ills  at  home 
Made  her  spurt  up  and  dart  out  like  a  fuse 
Which  burns  to  powder  wet  and  powder  heated 
Until  it  burns ;  she  burned,  you  see,  and  stopped 
When  principles  or  something  quenched  the  flame. 
I  walked  with  her  from  school  a  time  or  two, 
When  she  was  hinting,  flirting  with  her  eyes, 
I  know  it  now,  but  what  a  dunce  I  was, 
As  most  men  when  they're  twenty." 

"Well,  now  listen! 
A  little  later  on  an  evening, 
I  see  her  buggy  riding  with  Roy  Green, 
That  rake,  do  you  remember  him,  deadbeat, 
Half  drunkard  then,  corrupted  piece  of  flesh? 
She  sat  up  in  defiance  by  his  side, 
Her  chin  stuck  out  to  tell  the  staring  ones: 
Go  talk  or  censure  to  your  heart's  content. 
And  people  stood  and  stared  to  see  her  pass 
And  shook  their  heads  and  wondered." 

"  Afterward 

I  learned  from  her  this  was  the  night  at  home 
Her  father  and  her  mother  had  a  quarrel. 
Her  mother  asked  her  father  to  buy  Elenor 
A  new  dress  for  commencement,  and  the  father 
Was  drinking  and  rebuffed  her,  so  they  quarreled. 
And  rode  with  him  to  shame  her  father,  coming 
After  a  long  ride  in  the  country  home 
At  ten  o'clock  or  so." 

[190] 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 

"  Well,  then  I  thought, 
If  she  will  ride  with  Roy  Green,  I  go  back 
To  hinting  and  to  flirting  eyes  and  guess 
The  girl  will  ride  with  me,  or  something  more. 
So  I  begin  to  circle  round  the  girl, 
And  walk  with  her,  and  take  her  riding  too. 
She  drops  Roy  Green  for  me  — what  does  he  care? 
He's  had  enough  of  her  or  never  cared  — 
Which  is  it?  there's  the  secret  for  a  man 
As  long  as  women  interest  him  —  who  knows 
What  the  precedent  fellow  was  to  her? 
Roy  Green  takes  to  another  and  another. 
He  died  a  year  ago,  as  you'll  remember, 
What  were  his  secrets,  agony?  he  seemed 
A  man  to  me  who  lived  and  never  thought." 

"  So  Elenor  Murray  went  with  me.     Oh,  well, 
She  gave  me  kisses,  let  me  hold  her  tight, 
We  used  to  stop  along  the  country  ways 
And  kiss  as  long  as  we  had  breath  to  kiss, 
And  she  would  gasp  and  tremble." 

"Then,  at  last 

A  chum  I  had  began  to  laugh  at  me, 
For,  I  was  now  in  love  with  Elenor  Murray. 
Don't  let  her  make  a  fool  of  you,  he  said, 
No  girl  who  ever  traveled  with  Roy  Gre,en 
Was  not  what  he  desired  her,  nor,  before 
The  kind  of  girl  he  wanted.     Don't  you  know 
Roy  Green  is  laughing  at  you  in  his  sleeve, 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  boasts  that  Elenor  Murray  was  all  his? 
You  see  that  stung  me,  for  I  thought  at  twenty 
Girls  do  not  go  so  far,  that  only  women 
Who  sell  themselves  do  so,  or  now  and  then 
A  girl  who  is  betrayed  by  hopes  of  marriage. 
And  here  was  thrust  upon  me  something  devilish : 
The  fair  girl  that  I  loved  was  wise  already, 
And  fooling  me,  and  drinking  in  my  love 
In  mockery  of  me.     This  was  my  first 
Heart  sickness,  jaundice  of  the  soul  —  dear  me! 
And  how  I  suffered,  lay  awake  of  nights, 
And  wondered,  doubted,  hoped,  or  cursed  myself, 
And  cursed  the  girl  as  well.     And  I  would  think 
Of  flirting  eyes  and  hints  and  how  she  came 
To  me  before  she  went  with  this  Roy  Green. 
And  I  would  hear  the  older  men  give  hints 
About  their  conquests,  speak  of  ways  and  signs 
From  which  to  tell  a  woman.     On  the  train 
Hear  drummers  boast  and  drop  apothogems; 
The  woman  who  drinks  with  you  will  be  yours; 
Or  she  who  gives  herself  to  you  will  give 
To  someone  else;  you  know  the  kind  of  talk? 
Where  wisdom  of  the  sort  is  averaged  up, 
But  misses  finer  instances,  the  beauties 
Among  the  million  phases  of  the  thing. 
And,  so  at  last  I  thought  the  girl  was  game. 
And  had  been  snared,  already.     Why  should  I 
Be  just  a  cooing  dove,  why  not  a  hawk? 
We  were  out  riding  on  a  summer's  night, 
A  moon  and  all  the  rest,  the  scent  of  flowers, 
[192] 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 

And  many  kisses,  as  on  other  times. 

At  last  with  this  sole  object  in  my  mind 

Long  concentrated,  purposed,  all  at  once 

I  found  myself  turned  violent,  with  hands 

At  grapple,  twisting,  forcing,  and  this  girl 

In  terror  pleading  with  me.     In  a  moment 

When  I  took  time  for  breath,  she  said  to  me: 

'  I  will  not  ride  with  you  —  you  let  me  out.' 

To  which  I  said :  '  You'll  do  what  I  desire 

Or  you  can  walk  ten  miles  back  to  LeRoy, 

And  find  Roy  Green,  you  like  him  better,  maybe.' 

And  she  said:  *  Let  me  out,'  and  she  jumped  out, 

And  would  not  ride  with  me  another  step, 

Though  I  repented  saying,  come  and  ride. 

I  think  it  was  a  mile  or  more  I  drove 

The  horse  slowed  up  to  keep  her  company, 

And  then  I  cracked  the  whip  and  hurried  on, 

And  left  her  walking,  looked  from  time  to  time 

To  see  her  in  the  roadway,  then  drove  on 

And  reached  LeRoy,  which  Elenor  reached  that  morning 

At  one  or  two." 

"  Well,  then  what  was  the  riddle? 
Was  she  in  love  with  Roy  Green  yet,  was  she 
But  playing  with  me,  was  I  crude,  left  handed, 
Had  she  changed  over,  was  she  trying  me 
To  fasten  in  the  hook  of  matrimony, 
Or  was  she  good,  and  all  this  corner  talk 
Of  Roy  Green  just  the  dirt  of  dirty  minds? 
You  know  the  speculations,  and  you  know 
[193] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

How  they  befuddle  one  at  twenty  years. 

And  sometimes  I  would  grieve  for  what  I  did; 

Then  harden  and  laugh  down  my  softness.     But 

At  last  I  wrote  a  note  to  Elenor  Murray 

And  sent  it  with  a  bouquet  —  but  no  word 

Came  back  from  Elenor  Murray.     Then  I  thought: 

Here  is  a  girl  who  rides  with  that  Roy  Green 

And  what  would  he  be  with  her  for,  I  ask? 

And  if  she  wants  to  make  a  cause  of  war 

Out  of  an  attitude  she  half  provoked, 

Why  let  her  —  and  moreover  let  her  go. 

And  so  I  dropped  the  matter,  since  she  dropped 

My  friendship  from  that  night." 

"  But  later  on, 

Two  years  ago,  when  she  came  back  to  town 
From  somewhere,  I  don't  know,  gone  many  months, 
Grown  prettier,  more  desirable,  I  sent 
Some  roses  to  her  in  a  tender  mood 
As  if  to  say:  We're  grown  up  since  that  night, 
Have  you  forgotten  it,  as  I  remember 
How  womanly  you  were,  have  grown  to  be? 
She  wrote  me  just  a  little  note  of  thanks, 
And  what  is  strange  that  very  day  I  learned 
About  your  interest  in  her,  learned  besides 
It  prospered  for  some  months  before.     I  turned 
My  heart  away  for  good,  as  a  man  might 
Who  plunges  and  beholds  the  woman  smile 
And  take  another's  arm  and  walk  away." 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 

"  So,  that's  your  story,  is  it?  "  said  Carl  Eaton. 
"  Well,  I  had  married  her  except  for  you ! 
That  bunch  of  roses  spoiled  the  girl  for  me. 
You  had  Roy  Green,  dog-fennel,  I  had  roses, 
And  I  am  glad  you  sent  them,  otherwise 
I  might  have  married  her,  to  find  at  last 
A  wife  just  like  her  mother  is,  myself 
Living  her  father's  life,  for  something  missed 
Or  hated  in  me  —  not  the  want  of  money. 
She  liked  me  as  the  banker's  son,  be  sure, 
And  let  me  go  unwillingly." 

"  But  listen: 

I  called  on  her  the  night  you  sent  the  roses, 
And  there  she  had  them  on  the  center  table, 
And  twinkled  with  her  eyes,  and  spoke  of  them, 
And  said,  I  can  remember  it,  you  sent 
Such  lovely  roses  to  her,  you  and  she 
Had  been  good  friends  for  years  —  and  now  it  seems 
You  were  not  friends  —  I  didn't  know  it  then. 
But  think  about  it,  John!     What  was  this  woman? 
It's  clear  her  fate,  found  dead  there  by  the  river, 
Is  just  the  outward  mirror  of  herself, 
And  had  to  be.     There's  not  a  thing  in  life 
That  is  not  first  enacted  in  the  heart. 
Our  fate  is  the  reflection  of  the  life 
Which  goes  on  in  the  heart.     That  girl  was  doomed, 
Lived  in  her  heart  a  life  that  found  a  birth, 
Grew  up,  committed  matricide  at  last, 
Not  that  my  love  had  saved  her.     But  explain 

[195] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Why  would  she  over-stress  the  roses,  give 
Me   understandings   foreign   to  the   truth? 
For  truth  to  tell,  we  were  affianced  then, 
There  were  your  roses!     But  above  it  all 
Something  she  said  pricked  like  a  rose's  thorn, 
Something  that  grew  to  thought  she  cherished  you, 
Kept  memories  sweet  of  you.     If  that  were  true, 
What  was  the  past?     What  was  I  after  all? 
A  second  choice,  as  if  I  bought  a  car, 
But  thought  about  a  car  I  wanted  more. 
So  I  retired  that  night  in  serious  thought." 

"  Yet  if  you'll  credit  me,  I  had  not  heard 
About  this  Alma  Bell  affair,  or  heard 
About  her  riding  through  the  public  streets 
With  this  Roy  Green.     I  think  I  was  away, 
I  never  heard  it  anyway,  I  know 
Until  my  mother  told  me,  and  she  told  me 
Next  morning  after  I  had  found  your  roses. 
I  hadn't  told  my  mother,  nor  a  soul 
Before,  that  time  that  we  two  were  engaged  — 
I  didn't  tell  her  then  —  I  merely  asked 
Would  Elenor  Murray  please  you  as  a  daughter? 
You  should  have  seen  my  mother  —  how  she  gasped, 
And  gestured  losing  breath,  to  say  at  last: 
'  Why,  Carl,  my  boy,  what  are  you  thinking  of  ? 
You  have  not  promised  marriage  to  that  girl? 
Now  tell  me,  have  you?  '     Then  I  lied  to  her; 
And  laughed  a  little,  answered  no,  and  asked, 
'  What  do  you  know  about  her  ?  '  ! 
[196] 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 

"  Here's  a  joke, 

With  terror  in  it,  John,  if  you  have  told 
The  truth  to  me  —  my  mother  tells  me  there 
That  on  a  time  John  Campbell  —  that  is  you, 
And  Elenor  Murray  rode  into  the  country, 
And  that  at  two  o'clock,  or  so,  the  girl 
Is  seen  beside  the  gate  post  holding  on, 
And  reeling  up  the  side-walk  to  her  door. 
The  girl  was  tired,  if  you  have  told  the  truth. 
My  mother  warms  up  to  this  scoundrel  Green, 
And  tops  the  matter  off  with  Alma  Bell. 
And  all  the  love  I  had  for  Elenor  Murray 
Sours  in  my  heart.     And  then  I  tell  my  mother 
The  truth  —  of  our  engagement  —  promise  her 
To  break  it  off.     I  did  so  on  that  day. 
Got  back  the  solitaire  —  but  Elenor 
Hung  to  me,  asked  my  reasons,  kept  the  ring 
Until  I  wrote  so  sternly  she  gave  up 
Her  hope  and  me." 


"  But  worst  of  all,  John  Campbell  - 
If  this  be  worst  —  this  early  episode 
So  nipped  my  leaves  and  browned  and  curled  them  up 
To  whisper  sharply  with  their  bitter  edges, 
No  one  has  seen  a  bridal  wreath  in  me  ; 
Nor  have  I  ever  known  a  woman  since 
That  some  analysis  did  not  blow  cool 
A  rising  admiration." 

[197] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

"Now  to  think 

This  girl  lies  dead,  and  while  we  drink  a  beer 
You  tell  me  that  the  story  is  a  lie, 
The  girl  was  good,  walked  ten  miles  through  the  dark 
To  save  her  honor  from  a  ruffian  — 
That's  what  you  were,  as  you  confess  it  now. 
And  if  she  did  that,  what  is  all  this  talk 
Of  such  a  rat  as  Green,  of  Alma  Bell  ?  — 
It  isn't  true." 

"  The  only  truth  is  this: 
I  took  a  lasting  poison  from  a  lie, 
Which  built  the  very  cells  of  me  to  resist 
The  thought  of  marriage  —  poison  which  remains. 
I  wonder  should  I  tell  the  coroner? 
No  good  in  that  —  you  might  as  well  describe 
A  cancer  to  prevent  the  malady 
In  people  yet  to  be.     Let's  have  a  beer. 
John  Campbell  said:  I  learned  from  Elenor  Murray 
The  kind  of  woman  I  should  take  to  wife, 
I  married  just  the  woman  made  for  me." 

"  If  you  can  say  so  on  your  death  bed,  John, 
Then  Elenor  Murray  did  one  man  a  good, 
Whatever  ill  she  did  to  other  men. 
See,  I  keep  rapping  for  that  waiter  —  I 
Would  like  another  beer,  and  so  would  you." 


So  now  it's  clear  the  story  is  not  true 
Which  Mrs.  Eaton  told  the  coroner. 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 

And  when  the  coroner  told  the  jurymen 

What  Mrs.  Eaton  told  him,  Winthrop  Marion 

Skilled  in  the  work  of  running  down  a  tale 

Said :  "  I  can  look  up  Eaton,  Campbell  too, 

And  verify  or  contradict  this  thing. 

We  have  departed  far  afield  in  this, 

It  has  no  bearing  on  the  cause  of  death. 

But  none  of  us  have  liked  to  see,  the  girl's 

Good  name,  integrity  of  spirit  lie 

In  shadow  by  this  story."     Merival 

Was  glad  to  have  these  two  men  interviewed 

By  Winthrop  Marion ;  so  he  found  them,  talked, 

And  brought  their  stories  back,  as  told  above 

Which  made  the  soul  of  Elenor  Murray  clear.  .  .  . 


Paul  Roberts  was  a  man  of  sixty  years, 
Who  lived  and  ran  a  magazine  at  LeRoy. 
The  Dawn  he  called  it;  financed  by  a  fund 
Left  Roberts  by  a  millionaire,  who  believed 
The  fund  would  widen  knowledge  through  the  use 
Of  Roberts,  student  of  the  Eastern  wisdom. 
This  Roberts  loathed  the  war,  but  kept  his  peace 
Because  the  law  compelled  it.     Took  this  time 
To  fight  the  Christian  faith,  and  show  the  age 
Submerged  in  Christian  ethics,  weak  and  false. 
He  knew  this  Elenor  Murray  from  a  child, 
And  knew  her  rearing,  schooling,  knew  the  air 
She  breathed  in  at  LeRoy.     And  in  The  Dawn 
Printed  this  essay:  — 

[199] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

"  We  have  seen,"  he  writes, 
"Astonishing  revealments,  inventories 
Taken  of  souls,  all  coming  from  the  death 
Of  Elenor  Murray,  and  the  inquest  held 
To  ascertain  her  death.     Perhaps  fantastic 
This  thing  may  be,  but  scarcely  more  fantastic 
Than  rubbing  amber,  watching  frogs'  legs  twitch, 
From  which  the  light  of  cities  came,  the  power 
That  hauls  the  coaches  over  mountain  tops. 
We  would  do  well  to  laugh  at  nothing,  watch 
With  interested  eye  the  capering  souls 
Too  moved  to  walk  straight.     If  a  wire  grounds 
And  interpenetrates  the  granite  blocks 
With  viewless  fire,  horses  shod  with  steel, 
Walking  along  the  granite  blocks  will  leap 
Like  mad  things  in  the  air.     Well,  so  we  leap 
Before  we  know  the  cause.     Let  sound  minds  laugh. 

First  you  agree  no  man  has  looked  on  God; 
And  I  contend  the  souls  who  found  God,  told 
Too  little  of  their  triumph.     But  I  hold 
Man  shall  find  God  and  know,  shall  see  at  last 
What  man's  soul  is,  and  where  it  tends,  the  use 
It  was  made  for.     And  after  that?     Forever 
There's  progress  while  there's  life,  all  devolution 
Returns  to  progress. 

As  to  worship,  God 

They  had  their  amber  days,  days  of  frogs'  legs. 
And  yet  before  I  trace  the  Christian  growth 
[200] 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 

From  seed  to  blossom,  let  me  prophesy : 
The  light  upon  the  lotus  blossom  pauses, 
Has  paused  these  centuries  and  waits  to  move 
Westward  and  mingle  with  the  light  that  shines 
Upon  the  Occident.     What  did  Christ  do 
But  carry  the  Hebraic  thrift  and  prudence 
Of  matter  and  of  spirit,  half-corrupted 
By  wisdom  of  the  market  to  these  races 
That  crowd  in  Europe,  in  the  Western  World? 
Now  you  have  seen  such  things  as  chemistry, 
And  mongering  in  steel,  the  use  of  fire 
Made  perfect  in  swift  wheels,  and  swifter  wings, 
Until  the  realm  of  matter  seems  subdued, 
Thought  with  her  foot  upon  the  dragon's  head, 
And  using  him  to  serve.     This  western  world 
Massing  its  powers  these  centuries  to  bring 
Comfort  and  happiness  and  length  of  days, 
And  pushing  commerce,  trade  to  pile  up  gold, 
Knows  not  its  soul  as  yet,  nor  God.     But  here 
I  prophesy:  Suppose  the  Hindu  lore, 
Which  has  gone  farther  with  the  soul  of  man 
Than  we  have  gone  with  business,  has  card  cased 
The  soul's  addresses,  introduced  a  system 
In  the  soul's  business,  just  suppose  this  lore 
And  great  perfection  in  things  spiritual 
Should  by  some  process  wed  the  great  perfection 
Of  this  our  western  world,  and  we  should  have 
Mastery  of  spirit  and  of  matter,  too? 
Might  not  that  progress  start  as  one  result 
Of  this  great  war? 

[201  ] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Let's  see  from  whence  we  came. 
I  take  the  Hebrew  faith,  the  very  frog  legs 
Of  our  theology  —  no  use  to  say 
It  has  no  place  with  us.     Your  ministers 
Preach  from  the  Pentateuch,  its  decalogue 
Is  all  our  ethic  nearly;  and  our  life 
Is  suckled  by  the  Hebrews;  don't  the  Jews 
Control  our  business,  while  our  business  rules 
Our  spirits  far  too  much? 

Now  let  us  see 

What  food  our  spirits  feed  on.     Palestine 
Is  just  a  little  country,  fights  for  life 
Against  a  greater  prowess,  skill  in  arms. 
So  as  the  will  does  not  give  up,  but  hopes 
For  vengeance  and  for  wiping  out  of  wrongs 
The  Jews  conceive  a  God  who  will  dry  up 
His  people's  tears  and  let  them  laugh  again! 
Hence  in  Jehovah's  mouth  they  put  these  words: 
My  word  shall  stand  forever,  you  shall  eat 
The  riches  of  the  Gentiles,  suck  their  milk. 
Your  ploughman  shall  the  alien  be,  the  stranger 
Shall  feed  your  flock,  and  I  will  make  you  fat 
With  milk  and  honey.     I  will  give  you  power, 
Dominion,  leadership,  glory  forever. 
My  wrath  is  on  all  nations  to  avenge 
Israel's  sorrow  and  humiliation. 
My  sword  is  bathed  in  heaven,  filled  with  blood 
To  come  upon  Idumea,  to  stretch  out 
Upon  it  stones  of  emptiness,  confusion. 

[202] 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 

Her  fortresses  shall  be  the  habitation 

Of  dragons  and  a  court  for  owls.     I  smite 

The  proud  Assyrian  and  make  them  dead. 

In  fury,  and  in  anger  do  I  tread 

On  Zion's  enemies,  their  worm  shall  die  not, 

Nor  shall  their  fire  be  quenched.     I  shall  stir  up 

Jealousy  like  a  man  of  war,  put  on 

The  garments  of  my  vengeance,  and  repay 

To  adversaries  fury.     For  my  word 

Shall  stand  to  preach  good  tidings  to  the  meek, 

And  liberty  to  captives,  and  to  chains 

The  opening  of  prisons. 

Don't  you  see 

Our  western  culture  in  such  words  as  these? 
Your  proselytes,  and  business  man,  reformer 
Nourished  upon  them,  using  them  in  life? 
But  then  you  say  Christ  came  with  final  truth, 
And  put  away  Jehovah.     Let  us  see. 
What  shall  become  of  those  who  turn  from  Christ, 
Not  that  their  souls  failed,  only  that  they  turned, 
Did  not  believe,  accept,  found  in  him  little 
To  live  by,  grow  by?     This  is  what  Christ  said: 
Ye  vipers  in  the  last  day  ye  shall  see 
The  sun  turned  dark,  the  moon  made  blood.     Behold! 
I  come  in  clouds  of  glory  and  of  power 
To  judge  the  quick  and  judge  the  dead.     Mine  own 
Shall  enter  into  blessedness.     But  to  those 
Evil  who  scorned  me,  I  shall  say,  depart 
Accursed  into  everlasting  fire. 

[203] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  quick  the  gates  of  heaven  shall  be  shut, 
And  I  shall  reign  in  heaven  with  mine  own 
And  let  my  fire  of  wrath  consume  the  world. 

But  then  you  say,  what  of  his  love  and  doctrine? 
Not  the  old  decalogue  by  him  renewed, 
But  new  wine  to  the  Jews,  if  not  in  the  world 
Unknown  before.     Look  close  and  you  shall  see 
A  book  of  double  entries,  balanced  columns, 
Business  in  matters  spiritual,  prudential 
Rules  for  life's  conduct.     Yes,  be  merciful 
But  to  obtain  your  mercy;  yes,  forgive 
That  you  may  be  forgiven;  honor  your  parents 
That  your  days  may  be  long.     Blest  are  the  meek 
For  they  shall  inherit  the  earth.     Rejoice,  for  great 
Is  your  reward  in  heaven  if  they  say 
All  manner  of  evil  of  you,  persecute  you. 
Do  you  not  see  the  rule  of  compensation 
Shot  through  it  all  ?     And  if  you  love  your  neighbor, 
And  all  men  do  so,  then  you  have  the  state 
Composed  to  such  a  level  of  peace,  no  man 
Need  fear  the  breaker  in,  unless  you  keep 
This  mood  of  love  for  preaching,  for  a  rule 
While  business  in  the  Occident  goes  on 
Under  Jehovah's  Hebrew  manual. 
What  is  it  all?     The  meek  inherit  the  earth 
For  being  meek;  you  turn  the  other  cheek 
And  fill  your  enemy  with  shame  to  strike 
A  cheek  that  does  not  harden  to  return 
The  blow  received.     But  too  much  in  our  life 
[204] 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 

The  cheek  is  turned,  the  hand  not  made  a  fist, 

But  opened  out  to  pick  a  pocket  with, 

While  the  other  cheek  is  turned.     Now,  at  the  last 

Has  not  this  war  put  by  resist  not  evil? 

Which  was  the  way  of  Jesus  to  the  end, 

Even  to  bufferings  and  the  crown  of  thorns; 

Even  the  cross  and  death  ?  —  we  put  it  by : 

We  would  not  let  protagonists  thereof 

So  much  as  hint  the  doctrine,  which  is  to  say, 

Though  it  be  written  over  Jesus'  life, 

And  be  his  spirit's  essence,  we  see  through 

The  fallacy  of  that  preachment,  cannot  live 

In  this  world  by  it. 

Well,  let  me  be  plain. 
Races  like  men  find  truth  in  living  life, 
Find  thereby  what  is  food  and  what  is  poison. 
These  are  the  phylogenetics  spiritual. 
But  meanwhile  there's  the  light  upon  the  lotus 
Which  waits  to  mingle  with  the  light  that  shines 
Upon  the  Occident,  take  Jesus'  light 
Where  it  is  bright  enough  to  mix  with  it 
And  show  no  duller  splendor? 

I   look   back 

Upon  the  Jew  and  Jesus,  on  the  Thora 
The  gospel,  dogmatism,  poetry, 
The  Messianic  hope  and  will  and  grace, 
Jesus  the  Son  of  God,  and  one  with  God. 
The  outer  theocracy,  the  Kingdom  of  God  within  you, 

[205] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

St.  Paul  with  metaphysics,  St.  Augustine 

Babbling  of  sin  in  Cicero's  rhetoric, 

The  popes  with  their  intrigues  and  millions  slain 

0  ghastly  waste,  if  not  O  ghastly  failure, 
Beside  which  all  the  tragedies  of  time 
To  set  up  doctrines,  rulerships,  and  say: 

Are  not  a  finger  scratched.     O  monstrous  hate 

Born  of  enfolding  love!     O  martyrdom 

Of  our  poor  world  for  ages,  incurable  madness 

Bred  in  the  blood,  and  mixed  in  the  forms  of  thought, 

Still  maddening,  maiming,   crucifying,  killing 

The  fast  appearing  sons  of  men.     Go  ask 

What  man  you  will  who  has  lived  up  to  forty 

And  see  if  you  find  not  the  Christian  creed 

Has  not  in  some  way  gyved  his  life  and  bolted 

Body  or  spirit  to  a  wall,  to  make 

The  man  live  not  by  nature,  but  a  doctrine 

Evolved  from  thought  that  disregards  man's  life. 

But  oh  this  hunger  of  the  mind  for  answers 

And  hunger  of  the  heart  for  life,  the  heart 

Thrown  to  the  dogs  of  thought.     What  shall  we  do? 

1  see  a  way,  have  hope. 

The  blessed  Lord 
Says,  ye  deluded  by  unwisdom  say: 
This  day  is  won,  this  purpose  gained,  this  wealth 
Made  mine,  to-morrow  safe  —  behold 
My  enemy  is  slain,  I  am  well-born  — 
O  ye  deluded  ones,  slaves  of  desire, 
Self-satisfied  and  stubborn,   filled  with   pride, 
[206] 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 

Power,  lust  and  wrath  —  haters  of  me,  the  gate 

Of  hell  is  triple,  bitter  is  the  womb 

In  which  ye  sink  deluded,  birth  on  birth, 

These  not  renouncing.     But  O  soul  attend, 

Yield  not  to  impotence,  shake  off  your  fears, 

Be  steadfast,  balanced,  free  from  hate  and  anger, 

Balanced  in  pleasure  and  pain,  and  active, 

Yet  disregarding  action's  fruits  —  be  friendly, 

Compassionate,  forgiving,  self-controlled, 

Resolute,  not  shrinking  from  the  world, 

But  mixing  in  its  toils  as  fate  may  say  ; 

Pure,  expert,  passionless,  desire  in  leash, 

Renouncing  good  and  evil,  to  friend  and  foe, 

In  fame  and  ignominy  destitute 

Of  that  attachment  which  disturbs  the  vision 

And  labor  of  the  soul.     By  these  to  fix 

Eyes  undistracted  on  me,  the  supreme 

And  Sole  Reality.     And  O  remember 

Thou  soul,  thou  shalt  not  sin  who  workest  through 

Thy  Karma  as  its  nature  may  command. 

Strive  with  thy  sin  and  it  shall  make  the  muscles, 

And  strength  to  take  thee  to  another  height. 

But  cleave  to  the  practice  of  thy  soul  forever, 

Also  to  wisdom  better  still  than  practice, 

To  meditation,  better  still  than  wisdom, 

To  renunciation,  better  than  meditation, 

Beholding  Me  in  all  things,  in  all  things 

Me  who  would  have  you  peace  of  soul  attain, 

And  soul's  perfection. 

[207] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Well,  I  say  here  lies 

Profounder  truth  and  purer  than  the  words 
That  Jesus  spoke.     Let's  take  forgiveness : 
Forgive  your  enemies,  he  said,  and  bless 
Them  even  that  hate  you.     What  did  Jesus  do? 
Did  he  forgive  the  thief  upon  the  cross, 
Who  railed  at  him  ?     He  did  forgive  the  hands 
Who  crucified  him,  but  he  had  a  reason: 
They  knew  not  what  they  did;  well,  as  for  that 
Who  knows  the  thing  he  does?     Did  he  forgive 
Judas  Iscariot?     Did  he  forgive 
Poor  Peter  by  specific  words?    You  see 
In  instances  like  these  the  idealist, 
Passionate  and  inexorable  who  sets  up 
His  soul  against  the  world,  but  do  you  see 
The  esoteric  wisdom  which  takes  note 
Of  the  soul's  health,  just  for  the  sake  of  health, 
And  leaves  the  outward  recompense  alone? 

Yes,  what  has  Jesus  done  but  make  a  realm 

Of  outward  law  and  force  to  strain  and  bind 

The  sons  of  men  to  this  thing  and  to  that, 

Bring  the  fanatic  and  the  dogmatist 

In  every  neighborhood  in  America. 

And  radical  with  axes  after  trees, 

And  clergymen  with  curses  on  the  fig  trees? 

And  even  bring  this  Kaiser  and  his  dream 

Of  God's  will  in  him  to  destroy  his  foes, 

And  launch  the  war  therefor,  to  make  his  realm 

And  Christian  culture  paramount  in  time. 

[208] 


JOHN  CAMPBELL  AND  CARL  EATON 

When  all  the  while  'tis  clear  life  does  not  yield 

Proof  positive  of  exoteric  things. 

Why  the  great  truth  of  life  is  this,  I  think: 

The  soul  has  freedom  to  create  its  world 

Of  beauty,  truth,  to  make  the  world  as  truth 

Or  beauty,  build  philosophies,  religions, 

And  live  by  them,  through  them.     It  does  n6t  matter 

Whether  they're  true,  the  significant  thing  is  this : 

The  soul  has  freedom  to  create,  to  take 

The  void  of  unintelligible  air,  or  thought 

The  world  at  large,  and  of  it  make  the  food, 

Impulse  and  meaning  for  its  life.     I  say 

Life  is  for  nothing  else,  truth  is  not  ours; 

That  only  ours  which  we  create,  by  which 

We  live  and  grow,  and  so  we  come  again 

By  this  path  of  my  own  to  India. 


What  shall  we  do,  you  ask,  if  business  dies, 
If  the  western  world,  the  world  for  socialism 
Lops  off  its  leaves  and  branches,  and  the  sap 
Is  thrown  back  in  the  trunk  unused,  or  if 
This  light  upon  the  lotus  quiets  us 
And  makes  us  mind  entirely?     Well,  I  say, 
Men  have  not  lived,  enjoyed  enough  before. 
Our  strength  has  gone  to  get  the  means  for  strength. 
We  roll  the  rock  of  business  up,  and  see 
The  rock  roll  down,  and  roll  it  up  again. 
And  if  the  new  day  does  not  give  us  work 
In  finding  what  our  minds  are,  how  to  use  them, 
[209] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  how  to  live  more  beautifully,  I  miss 
A  guess  I  often  make. 

But  now  to  close: 

Only  the  blind  have  failed  to  see  how  truly 
This  Elenor  Murray  worked  her  Karma  out. 
And  how  she  put  forth  strength  to  cure  her  weakness, 
And  went  her  vital  way,  and  toiled  and  died. 
Peace  to  all  worlds,  and  peace  to  Elenor  Murray. 


The  coroner  had  heard  that  Elenor  Murray 
Once  crossed  the  Arctic  Circle.     What  of  that? 
She  traveled,  it  was  proved.     What  happened  there  ? 
What  hunter  after  secrets  could  find  out? 
But  on  a  day  the  name  of  Elenor  Murray 
Is  handled  by  two  men  who  sit  and  talk 
In  Fairbanks,  and  the  talk  is  in  these  words: 


AT  FAIRBANKS 

Bill,  look  here !     Here's  the  Times.     You  see  this  picture, 

Read  if  you  like  a  little  later.     You  never 

Heard  how  I  came  to  Fairbanks,  chanced  to  stay. 

It's  eight  years  now.     You  see  in  nineteen  eleven 

I  lived  in  Hammond,  Indiana,  thought 

I'd  like  a  trip,  see  mountains,  see  Alaska, 

Perhaps  find  fortune  or  a  woman  —  well 

You  know  from  your  experience  how  it  is. 

[210] 


AT  FAIRBANKS 

It  was  July  and  from  the  train  I  saw 

The  Canadian  Rockies,  stopped  at  Banff  a  day, 

At  Lake  Louise,  and  so  forth.     At  Vancouver 

Found  travelers  feasting,  Englishmen  in  drink, 

Flirtations  budding,  coming  into  flower; 

And  eager  spirits  waiting  for  the  boat. 

Up  to  this  time  I  hadn't  made  a  friend, 

Stalked  silently  about  along  the  streets, 

Drank  Scotch  like  all  the  rest,  as  much  besides. 


Well,  then  we  took  the  steamship  Princess  Alice 

And  started  up  the  Inland  Channel  —  great! 

Got  on  our  cheeks  the  breezes  from  the  crystal 

Cradles  of  the  north,  began  at  once 

To  find  the  mystery,  silence,  see  clear  stars, 

The  whites  and  blacks  and  greens  along  the  shores. 

And  still  I  had  no  friend,  was  quite  alone. 

Just  as  I  came  on  deck  I  saw  a  face, 

Looked,  stared  perhaps.     Her  eyes  went  over  me, 

Would  not  look  at  me.     At  the  dinner  table 

She  sat  far  down  from  me,  I  could  not  see  her, 

But  made  a  point  to  rise  when  she  arose, 

Did  all  I  could  to  catch  her  eye  —  no  use. 

So  things  went  and  I  gave  up  —  still  I  wondered 

Why  she  had  no  companion.     Was  she  married? 

Was  husband  waiting  her,  at  Skagway?  —  well 

I  fancied  something  of  the  sort,  at  last, 

And  as  I  said,  gave  up. 

[211] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

But  on  a  morning 

I  rose  to  see  the  sun  rise,  all  the  sky 
First  as  a  giant  pansy,  petals  flung 
In  violet  toward  the  zenith  streaked  with  fire; 
The  silver  of  the  snows  change  under  light, 
Mottled  with  shadows  of  the  mountain  tops 
Like  leaves  that  shadow,  flutter  on  a  lawn. 
At  last  the  topaz  splendors  shoot  to  heaven, 
The  sun  just  peeks  and  gilds  the  porcelain 
Of  snow  with  purest  gold.     And  in  the  valleys 
Darkness  remains,  Orician  ebony 
Is  not  more  black.     You've  seen  this  too,  I  know, 
And  recognize  my  picture.     There  I  stood, 
Believed  I  was  alone,  then  heard  a  voice, 
"  Is  it  not  beautiful?  "  and  looked  around, 
And  saw  my  girl,  who  had  avoided  me, 
Would  not  make  friends  before.     This  is  her  picture, 
Name,  Elenor  Murray.     So  the  matter  started. 
I  had  my  seat  at  table  changed  and  sat 
Next  to  my  girl  to  talk  with  her.     We  walked 
The  deck  together.     Then  she  said  to  me 
Her  home  was  in  Chicago,  so  it  is 
Travelers  abroad  discover  they  are  neighbors 
When  they  are  home.     She  had  been  teaching  school, 
And  saved  her  money  for  this  trip,  had  planned 
To  go  as  far  as  Fairbanks.     As  for  me, 
I  thought  I'd  stop  with  Skagway —  Oh  this  life! 
Your  hat  blows  off,  you  chase  it,  bump  a  woman, 
Then  beg  her  pardon,  laugh  and  get  acquainted, 
And  marry  later. 

[212] 


AT  FAIRBANKS 

As  we  steamed  along 
She  was  the  happiest  spirit  on  the  deck. 
The  Wrangell  Narrows  almost  drove  her  wild, 
There  where  the  mountains  are  like  circus  tents, 
Big  show,  menagerie  and  all  the  rest, 
But  white  as  cotton  with  perennial  snow. 
We  swum  past  aisles  of  pine  trees  where  a  stream 
Rushed  down  in  terraces  of  hoary  foam. 
The  nights  were  glorious.     We  drank  and  ate 
And  danced  when  there  was  dancing. 

Well,   at  first, 

She  seemed  a  little  school  ma'am,  quaint,  demure, 
Meticulous  and  puritanical. 
And  then  she  seemed  a  school  ma'am  out  to  have 
A  time,  so  far  away,  where  none  would  know, 
And  like  a  woman  who  had  heard  of  life 
And  had  a  teasing  interest  in  its  wonder, 
Too  long  caged  up.     At  last  my  vision  blurred: 
I  did  not  know  her,  lost  my  first  impressions 
Amid  succeeding  phases  which  she  showed. 

But  when  we  came  to  Skagway,  then  I  saw 
Another  Elenor  Murray.     How  she  danced 
And  tripped  from  place  to  place  —  such  energy! 
She  almost  wore  me  out  with  seeing  sights. 
But  now  behold !     The  White  Pass  she  must  see 
Upon  the  principle  of  missing  nothing  — 
But  oh  the  grave  of  "  Soapy  "  Smith,  the  outlaw, 
The  gambler  and  the  heeler,  that  for  her ! 
[213] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

We  went  four  miles  and  found  the  cemetery, 

The  grave  of  "  Soapy  "  Smith. —  Came  back  to  town 

Where  she  would  see  the  buildings  where  they  played 

Stud  poker,  Keno,  in  the  riotous  days. 

Time  came  for  her  to  go.     She  looked  at  me 

And  said  "  Come  on  to  Fairbanks."     As  for  that, 

I'd  had  enough,  was  ready  to  return, 

But  sensed  an  honorarium,  so  I  said, 

"  You  might  induce  me,"  with  a  pregnant  tone. 

That  moment  we  were  walking  'cross  the  street, 

She  stopped  a  moment,  shook  from  head  to  heels, 

And  said,  "  No  man  has  talked  to  me  that  way." 

I  dropped  the  matter.     She  renewed  it  —  said, 

"  Why  do  you  hurry  back  ?     What  calls  you  back  ? 

Come  on  to  Fairbanks,  see  the  gardens  there, 

That  tag  the  blizzards  with  their  rosy  hands 

And  romp  amid  the  snows."     She  smiled  at  me. 

Well,  then  I  thought  —  why  not  ?     And  smiled  her  bac 

And  on  we  went  to  Fairbanks,  where  my  hat 

Blows  off,  as  I  shall  tell  you. 

For  a  day 

We  did  the  town  together,  and  that  night 
I  thought  to  win  her.     First  we  dined  together, 
Had  many  drinks,  my  little  school  ma'am  drank 
Of  everything  I  ordered,  had  a  place 
For  more  than  I  could  drink.     And  truth  to  tell 
At  bed  time  I  was  woozy,  ten  o'clock. 
We  had  not  registered.     And  so  I  said, 
"  I'm  Mr.  Kelly  and  you're  Mrs.  Kelly." 
[214] 


AT  FAIRBANKS 

She  shook  her  head.     And  so  to  make  an  end 
I  could  not  win  her,  signed  my  name  in  full; 
She  did  the  same,  we  said  good  night  and  parted. 

Next  morning  when  I  woke,  felt  none  too  good, 

Got  up  at  last  and  met  her  down  at  breakfast; 

Tried  eggs  and  toast,  could  only  drink  some  coffee  ; 

Got  worse ;  in  short,  she  saw  it,  put  her  hand 

Upon  my  head  and  said,  "  Your  head  is  hot, 

You  have  a  fever."     Well,  I  lolled  around 

And  tried  to  fight  it  off  till  noon  —  no  good. 

By  this  time  I  was  sick,  lay  down  to  rest. 

By  night  I  could  not  lift  my  head  —  in  short, 

I  lay  there  for  a  month,  and  all  the  time 

She  cared  for  me  just  like  a  mother  would. 

They  moved  me  to  a  suite,  she  took  the  room 

That  opened  into  mine,  by  night  and  day 

She  nursed  me,  cheered  me,  read  to  me.     At  last 

When  I  sat  up,  was  soon  to  be  about, 

She  said  to  me,  "I'm  going  on  to  Nome, 

St.  Michael  first.     They  tell  me  that  you  cross 

The  Arctic  Circle  going  to  St.  Michael, 

And  I  must  cross  the  Arctic  Circle  —  think 

To  come  this  far  and  miss  it.     I  must  see 

The  Indian  villages."     And  there  again 

I  saw,  but  clearer  than  before,  the  spirit 

Adventuresome  and  restless,  what  you  call 

The  heart  American.     I  said  to  her, 

"  I'm  not  too  well,  I'm  lonely, —  yes,  and  more  — 

I'm  fond  of  you,  you  have  been  good  to  me, 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Stay  with  me  here. — She  darted  in  and  out 
The  room  where  I  was  lying,  doing  things, 
And  broke  my  pleadings  just  like  icicles 
You  shoot  against  a  wall. 

But  here  she  was, 

A  month  in  Fairbanks,  living  at  expense, 
Said  "  I  am  short  of  money  —  lend  me  some, 
I'll  go  to  Nome,  return  to  you  and  then 
We'll  ship  together  for  the  States." 

You  see 

I  really  owed  her  money  for  her  care, 
Her  loss  in  staying  —  then  I  loved  the  girl, 
Had  played  all  cards  but  one  —  I  played  it  now : 
"  Come  back  and  marry  me."     Her  eyes  looked  down. 
"  I  will  be  fair  with  you,"  she  said,  "  and  think. 
Away  from  you  I  can  make  up  my  mind 
If  I  have  love  enough  to  marry  you." 
I  gave  her  money  and  she  went  away, 
And  for  some  weeks  I  had  a  splendid  hell 
Of  loneliness  and  longing,  you  might  know, 
A  stranger  in  Alaska,  here  in  Fairbanks, 
In  love  besides,  and  mulling  in  my  mind 
Our  days  and  nights  upon  the  steamer  Alice, 
Our  ramblings  in  the  Northland. 

Weeks  went  by, 

No  letter  and  no  girl.     I  found  my  health 
Was  vigorous  again.     One  morning  walking 
[216] 


AT  FAIRBANKS 

I  kicked  a  twenty  dollar  gold  piece  up 

Right  on  the  side-walk.     Picked   it  up  and  said: 

"  An  omen  of  good  luck,  a  letter  soon ! 

Perhaps  this  town  has  something  for  me!  "     Well, 

I  thought  I'd  get  a  job  to  pass  the  time 

While  waiting  for  my  girl.     I  got  the  job 

And  here  I  am  to-day;  I've  flourished  here, 

Worked  to  the  top  in  Fairbanks  in  eight  years, 

And  thus  my  hat  blew  off. 

What  of  the  girl? 

Six  weeks  or  more  a  letter  came  from  her, 
She  crossed  the  Arctic  Circle,  went  to  Nome, 
Sailed  back  to  'Frisco  where  she  wrote  to  me. 
Sent  all  the  money  back  I  loaned  to  her, 
And  thanked  me  for  the  honor  I  had  done  her 
In  asking  her  in  marriage,  but  had  thought 
The  matter  over,  could  not  marry  me, 
Thought  in  the  circumstances  it  was  useless 
To  come  to  Fairbanks,  see  me,  tell  me  so. 

Now,  Bill,  I'm  egotist  enough  to  think 
This  girl  could  do  no  better.     Now  it  seems 
She's  dead  and  never  married  —  why  not  me? 
Why  did  she  ditch  me?     So  I  thought  about  it, 
Was  piqued  of  course,  concluded  in  the  end 
There  was  another  man.     A  woman's  no 
Means  she  has  someone  else,  expects  to  have, 
More  suited  to  her  fancy.     Then  one  morning 
As  I  awoke  with  thoughts  of  her  as  usual 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Right  in  my  mind  there  plumped  an  incident 
On  shipboard  when  she  asked  me  if  I  knew 
A  certain  man  in  Chicago.     At  the  time 
The  question  passed  amid  our  running  talk, 
And  made  no  memory.     But  you  watch  and  see 
A  woman  when  she  asks  you  if  you  know 
A  certain  man,  the  chances  are  the  man 
Is  something  in  her  life.     So  now  I  lay 
And  thought  there  is  a  man,  and  that's  the  man; 
His  name  is  stored  away,  I'll  dig  it  up 
Out  of  the  cells  subliminal  —  so  I  thought 
But  could  not  bring  it  back. 

I  found  at  last 

The  telephone  directory  of  Chicago, 
And  searched  and  searched  the  names  from  A  to  Z. 
Some  mornings  would  pronounce  a  name  and  think 
That  is  the  name,  then  throw  the  name  away  — 
It  did  not  fit  the  echo  in  my  brain. 

But  now  at  last  —  look  here!     Eight  years  are  gone, 
I'm  healed  of  Elenor  Murray,  married  too; 
And  read  about  her  death  here  in  the  Times, 
And  turn  the  pages  over  —  column  five  — 
Chicago  startled  by  a  suicide  — 
Gregory  Wenner  kills  himself  —  behold 
The  name,  at  last,  she  spoke! 


So  much  for  waters  in  Alaska.     Now 
Turn  eyes  upon  the  waters  nearer  home. 

[218] 


ANTON    SOSNOWSKI 

Anton  Sosnowski  has  a  fateful  day 

And  Winthrop  Marion  runs  the  story  down, 

And  learns  Sosnowski  read  the  Times  the  day, 

He  broke  from  brooding  to  a  dreadful  deed ; 

Sosnowski  saw  the  face  of  Elenor  Murray 

And  Rufus  Fox  upon  the  self-same  page, 

And  afterwards  was  known  to  show  a  clipping 

Concerning  Elenor  Murray  and  the  banner 

Of  Joan  of  Arc,  the  words  she  wrote  and  folded 

Within  the  banner:  to  be  brave,  nor  flinch. 


ANTON  SOSNOWSKI 

Anton  Sosnowski,  from  the  Shakspeare  School 
Where  he  assists  the  janitor,  sweeps  and  dusts, 
The  day  now  done,  sits  by  a  smeared  up  table 
Munching  coarse  bread  and  drinking  beer ;  before  him 
The  evening  paper  spread,  held  down  or  turned 
By  claw-like  hands,  covered  with  shiny  scars. 
He  broods  upon  the  war  news,  and  his  fate 
Which  keeps  him  from  the  war,  looks  up  and  sees 
His  scarred  face  in  the  mirror  over  the  wainscot; 
His  lashless  eyes  and  browless  brows  and  head 
With  patches  of  thin  hair.     And  then  he  mutters 
Hot  curses  to  himself  and  turns  the  paper 
And  curses  Germany,  and  asks  revenge 
For  Poland's  wrongs. 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  what  is  this  he  sees  ? 
The  picture  of  his  ruin  and  his  hate, 
Wert  Rufus  Fox!     This  leader  of  the  bar 
Is  made  the  counselor  of  the  city,  now 
The  city  takes  gas,  cars  and  telephones 
And  runs  them  for  the  people.     So  this  man 
Grown  rich  through  machinations  against  the  people, 
Who  fought  the  people  all  his  life  before, 
Abettor,  aider,  thinker  for  the  slickers 
Regraters  and  forestallers  and  engrossers, 
Is  now  the  friend,  adviser  of  the  city, 
Which  he  so  balked  and  thwarted,  growing  rich, 
Feared,  noted,  bowed  to  for  the  very  treason 
For  which  he  is  so  hated,  yet  deferred  to. 


And  Anton  looks  upon  the  picture,  reads 
About  the  great  man's  ancestry  here  printed, 
And  all  the  great  achievements  of  his  life ; 
Once  president  of  the  bar  association, 
And  member  of  this  club  and  of  that  club. 
Contributor  to  charities  and  art, 
A  founder  of  a  library,  a  vestryman. 
And  Anton  looks  upon  the  picture,  trembles 
Before  the  picture's  eyes.     They  are  the  eyes 
Of  Innocent  the  Tenth,  with  cruelty 
And  cunning  added  —  eyes  that  see  all  things 
And  boulder  jaws  that  crush  all  things  —  the  jaws 
That  place  themselves  at  front  of  drifts,  are  placed 
By  that  world  irony  which  mocks  the  good, 
[220] 


ANTON    SOSNOWSKI 

And  gives  the  glory  and  the  victory 
To  strength  and  greed. 

Anton  Sosnowski  looks 
Long  at  the  picture,  then  at  his  own  hands, 
And  laughs  maniacally  as  he  takes  the  mug 
With  both  hands  like  a  bird  with  frozen  claws, 
These  broken,  burned  off  hands  which  handle  bread 
As  they  were  wooden  rakes.     And  in  a  mirror 
Beside  the  table  in  the  wall,  smeared  over 
With  steam  from  red-hots,  kraut  and  cookery, 
Of  smoking  fats,  fixed  by  the  dust  in  blurs, 
And  streaks,  he  sees  his  own  face,  horrible 
For  scars  and  splotches  as  of  leprosy; 
The  eyes  that  have  no  lashes  and  no  brows; 
The  bullet  head  that  has  no  hair,  the  ears 
Burnt  off  at  top. 

So  comes  it  to  this  Pole 
Who  sees  beside  the  picture  of  the  lawyer 
The  clear  cut  face  of  Elenor  Murray  —  yes, 
She  gave  her  spirit  to  the  war,  is  dead, 
Her  life  is  being  sifted  now.     But  Fox 
Lives  for  more  honors,  and  by  honors  covers 
His  days  of  evil. 

Thus  Sosnowski  broods, 

And  lives  again  that  moment  of  hell  when  fire 
Burst  like  a  geyser  from  a  vat  where  gas 
Had  gathered  in  his  ignorance;  being  sent 
[221] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

To  light  a  drying  stove  within  the  vat, 

A  work  not  his,  who  was  the  engineer. 

The  gas  exploded  as  he  struck  the  match, 

And  like  an  insect  fixed  upon  a  pin 

And  held  before  a  flame,  hands,  face  and  body 

Were  burned  and  broken  as  his  body  shot 

Up  and  against  the  brewery  wall.     What  next? 

The  wearisome  and  tangled  ways  of  courts 

With  Rufus  Fox  for  foe,  four  trials  in  all 

Where  juries  disagreed  who  heard  the  law 

Erroneously  given  by  the  court. 

At  last  a  verdict  favorable,  and  a  court 

Sitting  above  the  forum  where  he  won 

To  say,  as  there's  no  evidence  to  show 

Just  how  the  gas  got  in  the  vat,  Sosnowski 

Must  go  for  life  with  broken  hands  unhelped. 

And  that  the  fact  alone  of  gas  therein 

Though  naught  to  show  his  fault  had  brought  it  there, 

The  mere  explosion  did  not  speak  a  fault 

Against  the  brewery. 

Out  from  court  he  went 
To  use  a  broom  with  crumpled  hands,  and  look 
For  life  in  mirrors  at  his  ghastly  face. 
And  brood  until  suspicion  grew  to  truth 
That  Rufus  Fox  had  compassed  juries,  courts; 
And  read  of  Rufus  Fox,  who  day  by  day 
Was  featured  in  the  press  for  noble  deeds, 
For  Art  or  Charity,  for  notable  dinners, 
Guests,  travels  and  what  not. 

[222] 


ANTON    SOSNOWSKI 

So  now  the  Pole 

Reading  of  Elenor  Murray,  cursed  himself 
That  he  could  brood  and  wait  —  for  what  ?  —  and  grow 
More  weak  of  will  for  brooding,  while  this  woman 
Had  gone  to  war  and  served  and  ended  it, 
Yet  he  lived  on,  and  could  not  go  to  war ; 
Saw  only  days  of  sweeping  with  these  hands, 
And  every  day  his  face  within  the  mirror, 
And  every  afternoon  this  glass  of  beer, 
And  coarse  bread,  and  these  thoughts. 
And  every  day  some  story  to  arouse 
His  sense  of  justice;  how  the  generous 
Give  and  pass  on,  and  how  the  selfish  live 
And  gather  honors.     But   Sosnowski  thought 
If  I  could  do  a  flaming  thing  to  show 
What  courts  are  ours,  what  matter  if  I  die? 
What  if  they  took  their  quick-lime  and  erased 
My  flesh  and  bones,  expunged  my  very  name, 
And  made  its  syllables  forbidden  ?  —  still 
If  I  brought  in  a  new  day  for  the  courts, 
Have  I  not  served?  he  thought.     Sosnowski  rose 
And  to  the  bar,  drank  whiskey,  then  went  out. 

That  afternoon  Elihu  Rufus  Fox 

Came  home  to  dress  for  a  dinner  to  be  given 

For  English  notables  in  town  —  to  rest 

After  a  bath,  and  found  himself  alone, 

His  wife  at  Red  Cross  work.     And  there  alone, 

Collarless,  lounging,  in  a  comfort  chair, 

Poring  on  Wordsworth's  poems  —  all  at  once 

[223] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Before  he  hears  the  door  turned,  rather  feels 
A  foot-fall  and  a  presence,  hears  too  soon 
A  pistol  shot,  looks  up  and  sees  Sosnowski, 
Who  fires  again,  but  misses;  grabs  the  man, 
Disarms  him,  flings  him  down,  and  finding  blood 
Upon  his  shirt  sleeve,  sees  his  hand  is  hit, 
No  other  damage  —  then  the  pistol  takes, 
And  covering  Sosnowski,  looks  at  him. 
And  after  several  seconds  gets  the  face 
Which  gradually  comes  forth  from  memories 
Of  many  cases,  knows  the  man  at  last. 
And  studying  Sosnowski,  Rufus  Fox 
Divines  what  drove  the  fellow  to  this  deed. 
And  in  these  moments  Rufus  Fox  beholds 
His  life  and  work,  and  how  he  made  the  law 
A  thing  to  use,  how  he  had  builded  friendships 
In  clubs  and  churches,  courted  politicians, 
And  played  with  secret  powers,  and  compromised 
Causes  and  truths  for  power  and  capital 
To  draw  on  as  a  lawyer,  so  to  win 
Favorable  judgments  when  his  skill  was  hired 
By  those  who  wished  to  win,  who  had  to  win 
To  keep  the  social  order  undisturbed 
And  wealth  where  it  was  wrenched  to. 


And   Rufus  Fox 

Knew  that  this  trembling  wreck  before  him  knew 
About  this  course  of  life  at  making  law 
And  using  law,  and  using  those  who  sit 

[224] 


ANTON    SOSNOWSKI 

To  administer  the  law.     And  then  he  said: 
"Why  did  you  do  this?" 

And  Sosnowski  spoke: 

"  I  meant  to  kill  you  —  where's  your  right  to  live 
When  millions  have  been  killed  to  make  the  world 
A  safer  place  for  liberty?     Where's  your  right 
To  live  and  have  more  honors,  be  the  man 
To  guide  the  city,  now  that  telephones, 
Gas,  railways  have  been  taken  by  the  city? 
I  meant  to  kill  you  just  to  help  the  poor 
Who  go  to  court.     For  had  I  killed  you  here 
My  story  would  be  known,  no  matter  if 
They  buried  me  in  lime,  and  made  my  name 
A  word  no  man  could  speak.     Now  I  have  failed. 
And  since  you  have  the  pistol,  point  it  at  me 
And  kill  me  now  —  for  if  you  tell  the  world 
You  killed  me  in  defense  of  self,  the  world 
Will  never  doubt  you,  for  the  world  believes  you 
And  will  not  doubt  your  word,  whatever  it  is." 

And  Rufus  Fox  replied :     "  Your  mind  is  turned 
For  thinking  of  your  case,  when  you  should  know 
This  country  is  a  place  of  laws,  and  law 
Must  have  its  way,  no  matter  who  is  hurt. 
Now  I  must  turn  you  over  to  the  courts, 
And  let  you  feel  the  hard  hand  of  the  law." 
Just  then  the  wife  of  Rufus  Fox  came  in, 
And  saw  her  husband  with  his  granite  jaws, 
And  lowering  countenance,  blood  on  his  shirt, 

[225] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  pistol  in  his  hand,  the  scarred  Sosnowski, 
Facing  the  lawyer. 

Seeing  that  her  husband 
Had  no  wound  but  a  hand  clipped  of  the  skin, 
And  learning  what  the  story  was,  she  saw 
It  was  no  time  to  let  Sosnowski's  wrong 
Come  out  to  cloud  the  glory  of  her  husband, 
Now  that  in  a  new  day  he  had  come  to  stand 
With  progress,  fairer  terms  of  life  —  to  let 
The  corpse  of  a  dead  day  be  brought  beside 
The  fresh  and  breathing  life  of  brighter  truth. 
Quickly  she  called  the  butler,  gave  him  charge 
Over  Sosnowski,  who  was  taken  out, 
Held  in  the  kitchen,  while  the  two  conferred, 
The  husband  and  the  wife. 

To  him  she  said, 

They  two  alone  now:     "  I  can  see  your  plan 
To  turn  this  fellow  over  to  the  law. 
It  will  not  do,  my  dear,  it  will  not  do. 
For  though  I  have  been  sharer  in  your  life, 
Partaker  of  its  spoils  and  fruits,  I  see 
This  man  is  just  a  ghost  of  a  dead  day 
Of  your  past  life,  perhaps,  in  which  I  shared. 
But  that  dead  life  I  would  not  resurrect 
In  memory  even,  it  has  passed  us  by, 
You  shall  not  live  it  more,  no  more  shall  I. 
The  war  has  changed  the  world  —  the  harvest  coming 
Will  have  its  tares  no  doubt,  but  the  old  tares 
[226] 


ANTON    SOSNOWSKI 

Have  been  cut  out  and  burned,  wholly,  I  trust. 

And  just  to  think  you  used  that  sharpened  talent 

For  getting  money,  place,  in  the  old  regime, 

To  place  you  where  to-day?     Why,  where  you  must 

Use  all  your  talents  for  the  common  good. 

A  barter  takes  two  parties,  and  the  traffic 

Whereby  the  giants  of  the  era  gone  — 

(You  are  a  giant  rising  on  the  wreck 

Of  programs  and  of  plots) — made  riches  for 

Themselves  and  those  they  served,  is  gone  as  well. 

Since  gradually  no  one  is  left  to  serve 

Or  have  an  interest  but  the  state  or  city, 

The  community  which  is  all  and  should  be  all. 

So  here  you  are  at  last  despite  yourself, 

Changed  not  in  mind  perhaps,  but  changed  in  place, 

Work,  interest,  taking  pride  too  in  the  work; 

And  speaking  with  your  outer  mind,  at  least 

Praise  for  the  day  and  work. 

I  am  at  fault, 

And  take  no  virtue  to  myself  —  I  lived 
Your  life  with  you  and  coveted  the  things 
Your  labors  brought  me.     All  is  changed  for  me. 
I  would  be  poorer  than  this  wretched  Pole 
Rather  than  go  back  to  the  day  that's  dead, 
Or  reassume  the  moods  I  lived  them  through. 
What  can  we  do  now  to  undo  the  past, 
Those  days  of  self-indulgence,  ostentation, 
False  prestige,  witless  pride,  that  waste  of  time, 
Money  and  spirit,  haunted  by  ennui 

[227] 


D'OMESDAY  BOOK 

Insatiable  emotion,  thirst  for  change. 

At  least  we  can  do  this:     We  can  set  up 

The  race's  progress  and  our  country's  glory 

As  standards  for  our  work  each  day,  go  on 

Perhaps  in  ignorance,  misguided  faith; 

And  let  the  end  approve  our  poor  attempts. 

Now  to  begin,  I  ask  two  things  of  you: 

If  you  or  anyone  who  did  your  will 

Wronged  this  poor  Pole,  make  good  the  wrong  at  once. 

And  for  the  sake  of  bigness  let  him  go. 

For  your  own  name's  sake,  let  the  fellow  go. 

Do  you  so  promise  me?  " 

And  Rufus  Fox, 

Who  looked  a  thunder  cloud  of  wrath  and  power 
Before  the  mirror  tying  his  white  tie, 
All  this  time  silent  —  only  spoke  these  words: 
"  Go  tell  the  butler  to  keep  guard  on  him 
And  hold  him  till  we  come  from  dinner." 

The  wife 

Looked  at  the  red  black  face  of  Rufus  Fox 
There  in  the  mirror,  which  like  Lao's  mirror 
Reflected  what  his  mind  was,  then  went  out 
Gently  to  her  bidding,  found  Sosnowski 
Laughing  and  talking  with  the  second  maid, 
Watched  over  by  the  butler,  quite  himself, 
His  pent  up  anger  half  discharged,  his  grudge 
In  part  relieved. 

[228] 


CONSIDER  FREELAND 

There  was  a  garrulous  ancient  at  LeRoy 

Who  traced  all  evils  to  monopoly 

In  land,  all  social  cures  to  single  tax. 

He  tried  to  button-hole  the  coroner 

And  tell  him  what  he  thought  of  Elenor  Murray. 

But  Merival  escaped.     And  then  this  man, 

Consider  Freeland  named,  got  in  a  group 

And  talked  his  mind  out  of  the  case,  the  land 

And  what  makes  poverty  and  waste  in  lives: 


CONSIDER  FREELAND 

Look  at  that  tract  of  land  there  —  five  good  acres 
Held  out  of  use  these  thirty  years  and  more. 
They  keep  a  cow  there.     See!  the  cow's  there  now. 
She  can't  eat  up  the  grass,  there  is  so  much. 
And  in  these  thirty  years  these  houses  here, 
Here,  all  around  here  have  been  built.     This  lot 
Is  worth  five  times  the  worth  it  had  before 
These  houses  were  built  round  it. 

Well,  by  God, 

I  am  in  part  responsible  for  this. 
I  started  out  to  be  a  first  rate  lawyer. 
Was  I  first  rate  lawyer  ?     Well,  I  won 
These  acres  for  the  Burtons  in  the  day 
When  I  could  tell  you  what  is  gavel  kind, 
Advowsons,  corodies,  frank  tenements, 
[229] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Scutage,  escheats,  feoffments,  heriots, 
Remainders  and  reversions,  and  mortmain, 
Tale  special  and  tale  general,  tale  female, 
Fees  absolute,  conditional,  copyholds; 
And  used  to  stand  and  argue  with  the  courts 
The  difference  'twixt  a  purchase,  limitation, 
The  rule  in  Shelley's  case. 

And  so  it  was 

In  my  good  days  I  won  these  acres  here 
For  old  man  Kingston's  daughter,  who  in  turn 
Bound  it  with  limitation  for  the  life 
Of  selfish  sons,  who  keep  a  caretaker, 
Who  keeps  a  cow  upon  it.     There's  the  cow! 
The  land  has  had  no  use  for  thirty  years. 
The  children  are  kept  off  it.     Elenor  Murray, 
This  girl  whose  death  makes  such  a  stir,  one  time 
Was  playing  there  —  but  that's  another  story. 
I  only  say  for  the  present,  these  five  acres 
Made  Elenor  Murray's  life  a  thing  of  waste 
As  much  as  anything,  and  a  damn  sight  more. 
For  think  a  minute! 

Kingston   had   a  daughter 
Married  to  Colonel  Burton  in  Kentucky. 
And  Kingston's  son  was  in  the  Civil  War. 
But  just  before  the  war,  the  Burtons  deeded 
These  acres  here,  which  she  inherited 
From  old  man  Kingston,  to  this  Captain  Kingston, 
The  son  aforesaid  of  Old  Kingston.     Well, 
[230] 


CONSIDER  FREELAND 

The  deed  upon  its  face  was  absolute, 
But  really  was  a  deed  in  trust. 

The  Captain 

Held  title  for  a  year  or  two,  and  then 
An  hour  before  he  fought  at  Shiloh,  made 
A  will,  and  willed  acres  to  his  wife, 
Fee  simple  and  forever.     Now  you'd  think 
That  contemplating  death,  he'd  make  a  deed 
Giving  these  acres  back  to  Mrs.  Burton, 
The  sister  who  had  trusted  him.     I  don't  know 
What  comes  in  people's  heads,  but  I  believe 
The  want  of  money  is  the  root  of  evil, 
As  well  as  love  of  money;  for  this  Captain 
Perhaps  would  make  provision  for  his  wife 
And  infant  son,  thought  that  the  chiefest  thing 
No  matter  how  he  did  it,  being  poor, 
Willed  this  land  as  he  did.     But  anyway 
He  willed  it  so,  went  into  Shiloh's  battle, 
And  fell  dead  on  the  field. 

What  happened  then? 
They  took  this  will  to  probate.     As  I  said 
I  was  a  lawyer  then,  you  may  believe  it, 
Was  hired  by  the  Burtons  to  reclaim 
These  acres  from  the  Widow  Kingston's  clutch, 
Under  this  wicked  will.     And  so  I  argued 
The  will  had  not  been  witnessed  according  to  law. 
Got  beat  upon  that  point  in  the  lower  court, 
But  won  upon  it  in  the  upper  courts. 

[231] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Then  next  I  filed  a  bill  to  set  aside 

This  deed  the  Burtons  made  to  Captain  Kingston  — 

Oh,  I  was  full  of  schemes,  expedients, 

In  those  days,  I  can  tell  you.     Widow  Kingston 

Came  back  and  filed  a  cross  bill,  asked  the  court 

To  confirm  the  title  in  her  son  and  her 

As  heirs  of  Captain  Kingston,  let  the  will 

Go  out  of  thought  and  reckoning.     Here's  the  issue; 

You  understand  the  case,  no  doubt.     We  fought 

Through  all  the  courts.     I  lost  in  the  lower  court, 

As  I  lost  on  the  will.     There  was  the  deed : 

For  love  and  affection  and  one  dollar  we 

Convey  and  warrant  lots  from  one  to  ten 

In  the  city  of  LeRoy,  to  Captain  Kingston 

To  be  his  own  forever. 

How  to  go 

Behind  such  words  and  show  the  actual  trust 
Inhering  in  the  deed,  that  was  the  job. 
But  here  I  was  resourceful  as  before, 
Found  witnesses  to  testify  they  heard 
This  Captain  Kingston  say  he  held  the  acres 
In  trust  for  Mrs.  Burton  —  but  I  lost 
Before  the  chancellor,  had  to  appeal, 
But  won  on  the  appeal,  and  thus  restored 
These  acres  to  the  Burtons.     And  for  this 
What  did  I  get?     Three  hundred  lousy  dollars. 
That's  why  I  smoke  a  pipe ;  that's  also  why 
I  quit  the  business  when  I  saw  the  business 
Was  making  ready  to  quit  me.     By  God, 

[232] 


CONSIDER  FREELAND 

My  life  is  waste  so  far  as  it  was  used 

By  this  law  business,  and  no  coroner 

Need  hold  an  inquest  on  me  to  find  out 

What  waste  was  in  my  life  —  God  damn  the  law ! 

Well,  then  I  go  my  way,  and  take  my  fee, 

And  pay  my  bills.     The  Burtons  have  the  land, 

And  turn  a  cow  upon  it.     See  how  nice 

A  playground  it  would  be.     I've  seen  ten  sets 

Of  children  try  to  play  there  —  hey !  you  hear, 

The  caretaker  come  out,  get  off  of  there! 

And  then  the  children  scamper,  climb  the  fence. 

Well,  after  while  the  Burtons  die.     The  will 
Leaves  these  five  acres  to  their  sons  for  life, 
Remainder  to  the  children  of  the  sons. 
The  sons  are  living  yet  at  middle  life, 
These  acres  have  been  tied  up  twenty  years, 
They  may  be  tied  up  thirty  years  beside: 
The  sons  can't  sell  it,  and  their  children  can't, 
Only  the  cow  can  use  it,  as  it  stands. 
It  grows  more  valuable  as  the  people  come  here, 
And  bring  in  being  Elenor  Murrays,  children, 
And  make  the  land  around  it  populous. 
That's  what  makes  poverty,  this  holding  land, 
It  makes  the  taxes  harder  on  the  poor, 
It  makes  work  scarcer,  and  it  takes  your  girls 
And  boys  and  throws  them  into  life  half  made, 
Half  ready  for  the  battle.     Is  a  country 
Free  where  the  laws  permit  such  things?     Your  priests, 
[233] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Your  addle-headed  preachers  mouthing  Christ 
And  morals,  prohibition,  laws  to  force 
People  to  be  good,  to  save  the  girls, 
When  every  half-wit  knows  environment 
Takes  natures,  made  unstable  in  these  homes 
Of  poverty  and  does  the  trick. 

That  baronet 

Who  mocked  our  freedom,  sailing  back  for  England 
And  said:     Your  Liberty  Statue  in  the  harbor 
Is  just  a  joke,  that  baronet  is  right, 
While  such  conditions  thrive. 

Well,  look  at  me 

Who  for  three  hundred  dollars  take  a  part 
In  making  a  cow  pasture  for  a  cow 
For  fifty  years  or  so.     I  hate  myself. 
And  were  the  Burtons  better  than  this  Kingston? 
Kingston  would  will  away  what  was  not  his. 
The  Burtons  took  what  is  the  gift  of  God, 
As  much  as  air,  and  fenced  it  out  of  use  — 
Save  for  the  cow  aforesaid  —  for  the  lives 
Of  sons  in  being. 

Oh,  I  know  you  think 
I  have  a  grudge.     I  have. 

This  Elenor  Murray 

Was  ten  years  old  I  think,  this  law  suit  ended 
Twelve  years  or  so,  and  I  was  running  down, 

[234] 


CONSIDER  FREELAND 

Was  tippling  just  a  little  every  day; 

And  I  came  by  this  lot  one  afternoon 

When  school  was  out,  a  sunny  afternoon. 

The  children  had  no  place  except  the  street 

To  play  in ;  they  were  standing  by  the  fence, 

The  cow  was  way  across  the  lot,  and  Elenor 

Was  looking  through  the  fence,  some  boys  and  girls 

Standing  around  her,  and  I  said  to  them: 

"Why  don't  you  climb  the  fence  and  play  in  there?" 

And  Elenor  —  she  always  was  a  leader, 

And  not  afraid  of  anything,  said:     "  Come  on," 

And  in  a  jiffy  climbed  the  fence,  the  children, 

Some  quicker  and  some  slower,  followed  her. 

Some  said  "  They  don't  allow  it."     Elenor 

Stood  on  the  fence,  flung  up  her  arms  and  crowed, 

And  said  "  What  can  they  do?     He  says  to  do  it," 

Pointing  at  me.     And  in  a  moment  all  of  them 

Were  playing  and  were  shouting  in  the  lot. 

And  I  stood  there  and  watched  them  half  malicious, 

And  half  in  pleasure  watching  them  at  play. 

Then  I  heard  "  hey!  "  the  care-taker  ran  out. 

And  said  "  Get  out  of  there,  I  will  arrest  you." 

He  drove  them  out  and  as  they  jumped  the  fence 

Some  said,  "  He  told  us  to,"  pointing  at  me. 

And  Elenor  Murray  said  "  Why,  what  a  lie!  " 

And  then  the  care-taker  grabbed  Elenor  Murray 

And  said,  "  You  are  the  wildest  of  them  all." 

I  spoke  up,  saying,  "  Leave  that  child  alone. 

I  won  this  God  damn  land  for  those  you  serve, 

They  use  it  for  a  cow  and  nothing  else, 

[235] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  let  these  children  run  about  the  streets, 

When  there  are  grass  and  dandelions  there 

In  plenty  for  these  children,  and  the  cow, 

And  space  enough  to  play  in  without  bothering 

That  solitary  cow."     I  took  his  hands 

Away  from  Elenor  Murray ;  he  and  I 

Came  face  to  face  with  clenched  fists  —  but  at  last 

He  walked  away;  the  children  scampered  off. 

Next  day,  however,  they  arrested  me 
For  aiding  in  a  trespass  clausam  fregit, 
And  fined  me  twenty  dollars  and  the  costs. 
Since  then  the  cow  has  all  her  way  in  there. 
And  Elenor  Murray  left  this  rotten  place, 
Went  to  the  war,  came  home  and  died,  and  proved 
She  had  the  sense  to  leave  so  vile  a  world. 


George  Joslin  ending  up  his  days  with  dreams 
Of  youth  in  Europe,  travels,  and  with  talk, 
Stirred  to  a  recollection  of  a  face 
He  saw  in  Paris  fifty  years  before, 
Because  the  face  resembled  Elenor  Murray's, 
Explored  his  drawers  and  boxes,  where  he  kept 
Mementos,  treasures  of  the  olden  days. 
And  found  a  pamphlet,  came  to  Merival, 
With  certain  recollections,  and  with  theories 
Of  Elenor  Murray:  — 

[236] 


GEORGE  JOSLIN  ON  LA  MENKEN 


GEORGE  JOSLIN  ON  LA  MENKEN 

Here,  Coroner  Merival,  look  at  this  picture! 
Whom  does  it  look  like?     Eyes  too  crystalline, 
A  head  like  Byron's,  tender  mouth,  and  neck, 
Slender  and  white,  a  pathos  as  of  smiles 
And  tears  kept  back  by  courage.     Yes,  you  know 
It  looks  like  Elenor  Murray. 

Well,   you  see 

I  read  each  day  about  the  inquest  —  good! 
Dig  out  the  truth,  begin  a  system  here 
Of  making  family  records,  let  us  see 
If  we  can  do  for  people  when  we  know 
How  best  to  do  it,  what  is  done  for  stock. 
So  build  up  Illinois,  the  nation  too. 
I  read  about  you  daily.     And  last  night 
When  Elenor  Murray's  picture  in  the  Times 
Looked  at  me,  I  began  to  think,  Good  Lord, 
Where  have  I  seen  that  face  before?     I  thought 
Through  more  than  fifty  years  departed,  sent 
My  mind  through  Europe  and  America 
In  all  my  travels,  meetings,  episodes. 
I  could  not  think.     At  last  I  opened  up 
A  box  of  pamphlets,  photographs,  mementos, 
Picked  up  since  1860,  and  behold 
I  find  this  pamphlet  of  La  Belle  Menken. 
Here  is  your  Elenor  Murray  born  again, 
As  here  might  be  your  blackbird  of  this  year 

[237] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

With  spots  of  red  upon  his  wings,  the  same 
As  last  year's  blackbird,  like  a  pansy  springing 
Out  of  the  April  of  this  year,  repeating 
The  color,  form  of  one  you  saw  last  year. 
Repeating  and  the  same,  but  not  the  same; 
No  two  alike,  you  know.     I'll  come  to  that. 

Well,  then,  La  Menken  —  as  a  boy  in  Paris 
I  saw  La  Menken,  I'll  return  to  this. 
But  just  as  Elenor  Murray  has  her  life 
Shadowed  and  symbolized  by  our  Starved  Rock  — 
And  everyone  has  something  in  his  life 
Which  takes  him,  makes  him,  is  the  image  too 
Of  fate  prefigured  —  La  Menken  has  Mazeppa, 
Her  notable  first  part  as  actress,  emblem 
Of  spirit,  character,  and  of  omen  too 
Of  years  to  come,  the  thrill  of  life,  the  end. 

Who  is  La  Menken?     Symbol  of  America, 

One  phase  of  spirit !     She  was  venturesome, 

Resourceful,  daring,  hopeful,  confident, 

And  as  she  wrote  of  self,  a  vagabond, 

A  dweller  in  tents,  a  reveler,  and  a  flame 

Aspiring  but  disreputable,  coming  up 

With  leaves  that  shamed  her  stalk,  could  not  be  shed, 

But  stuck  out  heavy  veined  and  muddy  hued 

In  time  of  blossom.     There  are  souls,  you  know, 

Who  have  shed  shapeless  immaturities, 

Betrayals  of  the  seed  before  the  blossom 

Comes  to  proclaim  a  beauty,  a  perfection; 

[238] 


GEORGE  JOSLIN  ON  LA  MENKEN 

Or  risen  with  their  stalk,  until  such  leaves 
Were  hidden  in  the  grass  or  soil  —  not  she, 
Nor  even  your  Elenor  Murray,  as  I  read  her. 
But  being  America  and  American, 
Brings  good  and  bad  together,  blossom  and  leaves 
With  prodigal  recklessness,  in  vital  health 
And  unselective  taste  and  vision  mixed 
Of  beauty  and  of  truth. 

Who  was  La  Menken? 

She's  born  in  Louisiana  in  thirty-five, 
Left  fatherless  at  seven  —  mother  takes  her 
And  puts  her  in  the  ballet  at  New  Orleans. 
She  dances  then  from  Texas  clear  to  Cuba; 
Then  gives  up  dancing,  studies  tragedy, 
And  plays  Bianca!     Fourteen  years  of  age 
Weds  Menken,  who's  a  Jew,  divorced  from  him ; 
Then  falls  in  love  with  Heenan,  pugilist. 
They  quarrel  and  separate  —  it's  in  this  pamphlet 
Just  as  I  tell  you;  you  can  take  it,  Coroner. 
Now  something  happens,  nothing  in  her  birth 
Or  place  of  birth  to  prophesy  her  life 
Like  Starved  Rock  to  this  Elenor  —  being  grown, 
A  hand  instead  is  darted  from  the  curtain 
That  hangs  between  to-day,  to-morrow,  sticks 
A  symbol  on  her  heart  and  whispers  to  her: 
You're  this,  my  woman.     Well,  the  thing  was  this: 
She  played  Mazeppa :  take  your  dummy  off, 
And  lash  me  to  the  horse.     They  were  afraid, 
But  she  prevailed,  was  nearly  killed  the  first  night, 
[239] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  after  that  succeeded,  was  the  rage 
And  for  her  years  remaining  found  herself 
Lashed  to  the  wild  horse  of  ungoverned  will, 
Which  ran  and  wandered,  till  she  knew  herself 
With  stronger  will  than  vision,  passion  stronger 
Than  spirit  to  judge;  the  richness  of  the  world, 
Love,  beauty,  living,  greater  than  her  power. 
And  all  the  time  she  had  the  appetite 
To  eat,  devour  it  all.     Grown  sick  at  last, 
She  diagnosed  her  case,  wrote  to  a  friend: 
The  soul  and  body  do  not  fit  each  other  — 
A  human  spirit  in  a  horse's  flesh. 
This  is  your  Elenor  Murray,  in  a  way. 
But  to  return  to  pansies,  run  your  hand 
Over  a  bed  of  pansies;  here's  a  pansy 
With  petals  stunted,  here's  another  one 
All  perfect  but  one  petal,  here's  another 
Too  streaked  or  mottled  —  all  are  pansies  though. 
And  here  is  one  full  petaled,  strikes  the  eye 
With  perfect  color,  markings.     Elenor  Murray 
Has  something  of  the  color  and  the  form 
Of  this  La  Menken,  but  is  less  a  pansy, 
And  Sappho,  Rachel,  Bernhardt  are  the  flowers 
La  Menken  strove  to  be,  and  could  not  be, 
Ended  with  being  only  of  their  kind. 
And  now  there's  pity  for  this  Elenor  Murray, 
And  people  wept  when  poor  La  Menken  died. 
Both  lived  and  had  their  way.     I  hate  this  pity, 
It  makes  you  overlook  there  are  two  hours : 
The  hour  of  joy,  the  hour  of  finding  out 
[240] 


GEORGE  JOSLIN  ON  LA  MENKEN 

Your  joy  was  all  mistake,  or  led  to  pain. 

We  who  inspect  these  lives  behold  the  pain, 

And  see  the  error,  do  not  keep  in  mind 

The  hour  of  rapture,  and  the  pride,  indeed 

With  which  your  Elenor  Murrays  and  La  Menkens 

Have  lived  that  hour,  elation,  pride  and  scorn 

For  any  other  way  —  "  this  is  the  life  " 

I  hear  them  say. 

Well,  now  I  go  along. 

La  Menken  fills  her  purse  with  gold  —  she  sends 
Her  pugilist  away,  tries  once  again 
And  weds  a  humorist,  an  Orpheus  Kerr  — 
And  plays  before  the  miners  out  in  'Frisco, 
And  Sacramento,  gathers  in  the  eagles. 
She  goes  to  Europe  then  —  with  husband?     No! 
James  Barkley  is  her  fellow  on  the  voyage. 
She  lands  in  London,  takes  a  gorgeous  suite 
In  London's  grandest  hostlery,  entertains 
Charles  Dickens,  Prince  Baerto  and  Charles  Read, 
The  Duke  of  Wellington  and  Swinburne,  Sand 
And  Jenny  Lind ;  and  has  a  liveried  coachman ; 
And  for  a  crest  a  horse's  head  surmounting 
Four  aces,  if  you  please.     And  plays  Mazeppa, 
And  piles  the  money  up. 

Then  next  is  Paris. 
And  there  I  saw  her,  1866, 
When  Louis  Napoleon  and  the  King  of  Greece, 
The  Prince  Imperial  were  in  a  box. 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

She  wandered  to  Vienna,  there  was  ill, 
Came  back  to  Paris,  died,  a  stranger's  grave 
In  Pere  la  Chaise  was  given,  afterwards 
Exhumed  in  Mont  Parnasse  was  buried,  got 
A  little  stone  with  these  words  carved  upon  it : 
'  Thou  Knowest  "  meaning  God  knew,  while  herself 
Knew  nothing  of  herself. 


But  when  in  Paris 

They  sold  her  picture  taken  with  her  arms 
Around  Dumas,  and  photographs  made  up 
Of  postures  ludicrous,  obscene  as  well, 
Of  her  and  great  Dumas,  I  have  them  home. 
Can  show  you  sometime.     Well  she  loved  Dumas, 
Inscribed  a  book  of  poems  to  Charles  Dickens, 
By  his  permission,  mark  you  —  don't  you  see 
Your  Elenor  Murray  here?     This  Elenor  Murray 

A  miniature  imperfect  of  La  Menken? 

She  loved  sensation,  all  her  senses  thrilled  her; 

A  delicate  soul  too  weighted  by  the  flesh; 

A  coquette,  quick  of  wit,  intuitive, 

Kind,  generous,  unaffected,  mystical, 

Teased  by  the  divine  in  life,  and  melancholy, 

Of  deep  emotion  sometimes.     One  has  said 

She  had  a  nature  spiritual,  religious 

Which  warred  upon  the  flesh  and  fell  in  battle; 

Just  as  your  Elenor  Murray  joined  the  church, 

And  did  not  keep  the  faith,  if  truth  be  told. 

[242] 


GEORGE  JOSLIN  ON  LA  MENKEN 

Now  look,  here  is  a  letter  in  this  pamphlet 

La  Menken  writes  a  poet  —  for  she  hunts 

For  seers  and  for  poets,  lofty  souls. 

And  who  does  that?     A  woman  wholly  bad? 

Why  no,  a  woman  to  be  given  life 

Fit  for  her  spirit  in  another  realm 

By  God  who  will  take  notice,  I  believe. 

Now  listen  if  you  will !     "  I  know  your  soul. 

It  has  met  mine  somewhere  in  starry  space. 

And  you  must  often  meet  me,  vagabond 

Of  fancy  without  aim,  a  dweller  in  tents 

Disreputable  before  the  just.     Just  think 

I  am  a  linguist,  write  some  poems  too, 

Can  paint  a  little,  model  clay  as  well. 

And  yet  for  all  these  gropings  of  my  soul 

I  am  a  vagabond,  of  little  use. 

My  body  and  my  soul  are  in  a  scramble 

And  do  not  fit  each  other  —  let  them  carve 

Those  words  upon  my  stone,  but  also  these 

Thou  Knowest,  for  God  knows  me,  knows  I  love 

Whatever  is  good  and  beautiful  in  life; 

And  that  my  soul  has  sought  them  without  rest. 

Farewell,  my  friend,  my  spirit  is  with  you, 

Vienna  is  too  horrible,  but  know  Paris 

Then  die  content." 

Now,  Coroner  Merival, 
You're  not  the  only  man  who  wants  to  see, 
Will  work  to  make  America  a  republic 
Of  splendors,  freedoms,  happiness,  success. 

[243] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Though  I  am  seventy  six,  cannot  do  much, 
Save  talk,  as  I  am  talking  now,  bring  forth 
Proofs,  revelations  from  the  years  I've  lived. 
I  care  not  how  you  view  the  lives  of  people, 
As  pansy  beds  or  what  not,  lift  your  faith 
So  high  above  the  pansy  bed  it  sees 
The  streaked  and  stunted  pansies  filling  in 
The  pattern  that  the  perfect  pansies  outline, 
Therefore  are  smiling,  even  indifferent 
To  this  poor  conscious  pansy,  dying  at  last 
Because  it  could  not  be  the  flower  it  wished. 
My  heart  to  Elenor  Murray  and  La  Menken 
Goes  out  in  sorrow,  even  while  I  know 
They  shook  their  leaves  in  April,  laughed  and  thrilled, 
And  either  did  not  know,  or  did  not  care 
The  growing  time  was  precious,  and  if  wasted 
Could  never  be  regained.     Look  at  La  Menken 
At  seven  years  put  in  the  ballet  corps; 
And  look  at  Elenor  Murray  getting  smut 
Out  of  experience  that  made  her  wise. 
What  shall  we  do  about  it?  —  let  it  go? 
And  say  there  is  no  help,  or  say  a  republic, 
Set  up  a  hundred  years  ago,  raised  to  the  helm 
Of  rulership  as  president  a  list 
Of  men  more  able  than  the  emperors, 
Kings,  rulers  of  the  world,  and  statesmen  too 
The  equal  of  the  greatest,  money  makers, 
And  domineers  of  finance  and  economies 
Phenomenal  in  time  —  say,  I  repeat 
A  country  like  this  one  must  let  its  children 
[244] 


GEORGE  JOSLIN  ON  LA  MENKEN 

Waste  as  they  wasted  in  the  darker  years 
Of  Europe.     Shall  we  let  these  trivial  minds 
V/ho  see  salvation,  progress  in  restraint, 
Pre-empt  the  field  of  moulding  human  life? 
Or  shall  we  take  a  hand,  and  put  our  minds 
Upon  the  task,  as  recently  we  built 
An  army  for  the  war,  equipped  and  fed  it, 
An  army  better  than  all  other  armies, 
More  powerful,  more  apt  of  hand  and  brain, 
Of  thin  tall  youths,  who  did  stop  but  said 
Like  poor  La  Menken,  strap  me  to  the  horse 
I'll  do  it  if  I  die  —  so  giving  to  peace 
The  skill  and  genius  which  we  use  in  war, 
Though  it  cost  twenty  billion,  and  why  not? 
Why  every  dollar,  every  drop  of  blood 
For  war  like  this  to  guard  democracy, 
And  not  so  much  or  more  to  build  the  land, 
Improve  our  blood,  make  individual 
America  and  her  race?     And  first  to  rout 
Poverty  and  disease,  give  youth  its  chance, 
And   therapeutic  guidance.     Soldier   boys 
Have  huts  for  recreation,   clergymen, 
And  is  it  more,  less  worth  to  furnish  hands 
Intimate,  hearts  intimate  for  the  use 
Of  your  La  Menkens,  Elenor  Murrays,  youths 
Who  feel  such  vigor  in  their  restless  wings 
They  tumble  out  of  crowded  nests  and  fly 
To  fall  in  thickets,  dash  themselves  against 
Walls,  trees? 

[245] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

I  have  a  vision,  Coroner, 
Of  a  new  Republic,  brighter  than  the  sun, 
A  new  race,  loftier  faith,  this  land  of  ours 
Made  over  as  to  people,  boys  and  girls, 
Conserved  like  forests,  water  power  or  mines ; 
Watched,  tested,  put  to  best  use,  keen  economies 
Practiced  in  spirits,  waste  of  human  life, 
Hope,    aspiration,   talent,   virtues,    powers, 
Avoided  by  a  science,  science  of  life, 
Of  spirit,  what  you  will.     Enough  of  war, 
And  billions  for  the  flag  —  all  well  enough ! 
Some  billions  now  to  make  democracy 
Democracy  in  truth  with  us,  and  life 
Not  helter-skelter,  hitting  as  it  may, 
And  missing  much,  as  this  La  Menken  did. 
I'm  not  convinced  we  must  have  stunted  pansies, 
That  have  no  use  but  just  to  piece  the  pattern. 
Let's  try,  and  if  we  try  and  fail,  why  then 
Our  human  duty  ends,  the  God  in  us 
Will  have  it  just  this  way,  no  other  way. 
And  then  we  may  accept  so  poor  a  world, 
A  republic  so  unfinished. 


Will  Paget  is  another  writer  of  letters 
To  Coroner  Merival.     The  coroner 
Spends  evenings  reading  letters,  keeps  a  file 
Where  he  preserves  them.     And  the  blasphemy 
Of  Paget  makes  him  laugh.     He  has  an  evening 
And  reads  this  letter  to  the  jurymen: 

[246] 


WILL  FACET  ON  DEMOS  AND  HOGOS 


WILL  PAGET  ON  DEMOS  AND  HOGOS 

To  Coroner  Merival,  greetings,  but  a  voice 
Dissentient  from  much  that  goes  the  rounds, 
Concerning  Elenor  Murray.     Here's  my  word : 
Give  men  and  women  freedom,  save  the  land 
From  dull  theocracy  —  the  theo,  what? 
A  blend  of  Demos  and  Jehovah!     Say, 
Bring  back  your  despots,  bring  your  Louis  Fourteenths, 
And  give  them  thrones  of  gold  and  ivory 
From  where  with  leaded  sceptres  they  may  whack 
King  Demos  driven  forth.     You  know  the  face? 
The  temples  are  like  sea  shells,  hollows  out, 
Which  narrow  close  the  space  for  cortex  cells. 
There  would  be  little  brow  if  hair  remained; 
But  hair  is  gone,  because  the  dandruff  came. 
The  eyes  are  close  together  like  a  weasel's ; 
The  jaws  are  heavy,  that  is  character; 
The  mouth  is  thin  and  wide  to  gobble  chicken ; 
The  paunch  is  heavy  for  the  chickens  eaten. 
Throned  high  upon  a  soap  box  Demos  rules, 
And  mumbles  decalogues:  Thou  shalt  not  read, 
Save  what  I  tell  you,  never  books  that  tell 
Of  men  and  women  as  they  live  and  are. 
Thou  shalt  not  see  the  dramas  which  portray 
The  evil  passions  and  satiric  moods 
Which  mock  this  Christian  nation  and  its  hope. 
Thou  shalt  not  drink,  not  even  wine  or  beer. 
Thou  shalt  not  play  at  cards,  or  see  the  races. 
[247] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Thou  shalt  not  be  divorced !     Thou  shalt  not  play. 

Thou  shalt  not  bow  to  graven  images 

Of  beauty  cut  in  marble,  fused  in  bronze. 

Behold  my  name  is  Demos,  King  of  Kings, 

My  name  is  legion,  I  am  many,  come 

Out  of  the  sea  where  many  hogs  were  drowned, 

And  now  the  ruler  of  hogocracy, 

Where  in  the  name  of  freedom  hungry  snouts 

Root  up  the  truffles  in  your  great  republic, 

And  crunch  with  heavy  jaws  the  legs  and  arms 

Of  people  who  fall  over  in  the  pen. 

Hierarchies  in  my  name  are  planted  under 

Your  states  political  to  sprout  and  take 

The  new  world's  soil, —  religious  freedom  this !  — 

Thought  must  be  free  —  unless  your  thought  objects 

To  such  dominion,  and  to  literal  faith 

In  an  old  book  that  never  had  a  place 

Except  beside  the  Koran,  Zarathustra. 

So  here  is  your  theocracy  and  here 

The  land  of  Boredom.     Do  you  wonder  now 

That  people  cry  for  war?     You  see  that  God 

Frowns  on  all  games  but  war.     You  shall  not  play 

Or  kindle  spirit  with  a  rapture  save 

A  moral  end's  in  view.     All  joy  is  sin, 

Where  joy  stands  for  itself  alone,  nor  asks 

Consent  to  be,  save  for  itself.     But  war 

Waged  to  put  down  the  wrong,  it's  always  that; 

To  vindicate  God's  truths,  all  wars  are  such, 

Is  game  that  lets  the  spirit  play,  is  backed 

By  God  and  moral  reasons,  therefore  war, 

[248] 


WILL  PAGET  ON  DEMOS  AND  HOGOS 

A  game  disguised  as  business,  cosmic  work 
For  great  millenniums,  no  less  relieves 
The  boredom  of  theocracies.     But  if 
Your  men  and  women  had  the  chance  to  play, 
Be  free  and  spend  superfluous  energies, 
In  what  I  call  the  greatest  game,  that's  Life, 
Have  life  more  freely,  deeply,  and  you  say 
How  would  you  like  a  war  and  lose  a  leg, 
Or  come  from  battle  sick  for  all  your  years? 
You  would  say  no,  unless  you  saw  an  issue, 
Stripped  clean  of  Christian  twaddle,  as  we'll  say 
The  Greeks  beheld  the  Persians.     Well,  behold 
All  honest  paganism  in  such  things  discarded 
For  God  who  comes  in  glory,  trampling  presses 
Filled  up  with  grapes  of  wrath. 

Now  hear  me  out 

I  knew  we'd  have  a  war,  it  wasn't  only 
That  your  hogocracy  was  grunting  war 
We'd  fight  Japan,  take  Mexico  —  remember 
How  dancing  flourished  madly  in  the  land; 
Then  think  of  savages  who  dance  the  Ghost  Dance, 
And  cattle  lowing,  rushing  in  a  panic, 
There's  psychic  secrets  here.     But  then  at  last 
What  can  you  do  with  life?     You're  well  and  strong, 
Flushed  with  desire,  mad  with  appetites, 
You  turn  this  way  and  find  a  sign  forbidden, 
You  turn  that  way  and  find  the  door  is  closed. 
Hogocracy,  King  Demos  say,  go  back, 
Find  work,  develop  character,  restrain, 
[249] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Draw  up  your  belt  a  little  tighter,  hunger 
And  thirst  diminish  with  a  tighter  belt. 
And  none  to  say,  take  off  the  belt  and  eat, 
Here's  water  for  you. 

Well,  you  have  a  war. 
We  used  to  say  in  foot  ball  kick  their  shins, 
And  gouge  their  eyes  out  —  when  our  shins  were  kicked 
We  hollered  foul  and  ouch.     There  was  the  south 
Who  called  us  mud-sills  in  this  freer  north, 
And  mouthed  democracy ;  and  as  for  that 
Their  churches  made  of  God  a  battle  leader, 
An  idea  come  from  Palestine ;  oh,  yes, 
They  soon  would  wipe  us  up,  they  were  the  people. 
But  when  we  slaughtered  them  they  hollered  ouch. 
And  why  not?     For  a  gun  and  uniform, 
And  bands  that  play  are  rapturous  enough. 
But  when  you  get  a  bullet  through  the  heart, 
The  game  is  not  so  funny  as  it  was. 
That's  why  I  hated  Germany  and  hate  her, 
And  feel  we  could  not  let  this  German  culture 
Spread  over  earth.     That  culture  was  but  this: 
Life  must  have  an  expression  and  a  game, 
And  war's  the  game,  besides  the  prize  is  great 
In  land  and  treasure,  commerce,  let  us  play. 
It  lets  the  people's  passions  have  a  vent 
When  fires  of  life  burn  hot  and  hotter  under 
The  kettle  and  the  lid  is  clamped  by  work, 
Dull  duty,   daily   routine,    inhibitions. 
Before  this  Elenor  Murray  woke  to  life 

[250] 


WILL  PAGET  ON  DEMOS  AND  HOGOS 

LeRoy  was  stirring,  but  the  stir  was  play. 

It  was  a  Gretna  Green,  and  pleasure  boats 

Ran  up  and  down  the  river  —  on  the  streets 

You  heard  the  cry  of  barkers,  in  the  park 

The  band  was  playing,  and  you  heard  the  ring 

Of  registers  at  fountains  and  buffets. 

All  this  was  shabby  maybe,  but  observe 

There  are  those  souls  who  see  the  wrath  of  God 

As  blackest  background  to  the  light  of  soul: 

And  when  the  thunder  rumbles  and  the  storm 

Comes  up  with  lightning  then  they  say  to  men 

Who  laugh  in  bar-rooms,  "  Have  a  care,  blasphemers, 

You  may  be  struck  by  lightning  "-  -  here's  the  root 

From  which  this  mood  ascetic  comes  to  leaf 

In  all  theocracies,  and  throws  a  shadow 

Upon  all  freedom. 

Look  at  us  to-day. 

They  say  to  me,  see  what  a  town  we  have : 
The  men  at  work,  smoke  coming  from  the  chimneys, 
The  banks  full  up  of  money,  business  good, 
The  workmen  sober,  going  home  at  night, 
No  rowdy  barkers  and  no  bands  a-playing, 
No  drinking  and  no  gaming  and  no  vice. 
No  marriages  contracted  to  be  broken. 
Look  how  LeRoy  is  quiet,  sane  and  clean ! 
And  I  reply,  you  like  the  stir  of  work, 
But  not  the  stir  of  play;  your  chimneys  smoke, 
Your  banks  have  money.     Let  me  look  behind 
The  door  that  closes  on  your  man  at  home, 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  wife  and  children  there,  what  shall  I  find? 
A  sick  man  looks  to  health  as  it  were  all, 
But  when  the  fever  leaves  him  and  he  feels 
The  store  of  strength  in  muscles  slumbering 
And  waiting  to  be  used,  then  something  else 
Than  health  is  needful,  he  must  have  a  way 
To  voice  the  life  within  him,  and  he  wonders 
Why  health  seemed  so  desirable  before,  > 
And  all  sufficient  to  him. 

Take  this  girl: 

Why  do  you  marvel  that  she  rode  at  night 
With  any  man  who  came  along?     Good  God, 
If  I  were  born  a  woman  and  they  put  me 
In  a  theocracy,  hogocracy, 
I'd  do  the  first  thing  that  came  in  my  mind 
To  give  my  soul  expression.     Don't  you  think 
You're  something  of  a  bully  and  a  coward 
To  ask  such  model  living  from  this  girl 
When  you,  my  grunting  hogos,  run  the  land 
And  bring  us  scandals  like  the  times  of  Grant, 
And  poisoned  beef  sold  to  the  soldier  boys, 
When  we  were  warring  Spain,  and  all  this  stuff 
Concerning  loot  and  plunder,  malversation, 
That  riots  in  your  cities,  printed  daily? 
I  roll  the  panoramic  story  out 
To  Washington  the  great  —  what  do  I  see? 
It's  tangle  foot,  the  sticky  smear  is  dry; 
But  I  can  find  wings,  legs  and  heads,  remember 
How  little  flies  and  big  were  buzzing  once 
[252] 


WILL  PAGET  ON  DEMOS  AND   HOGOS 

Of  God  and  duty,  country,  virtue,  faith; 
And  beating  wings,  already  gummed  with  sweet, 
Until  their  little  bellies  touched  the  glue, 
They  sought  to  fill  their  bellies  with  —  at  last 
Long  silence,  which  is  history,  scroll  rolled  up 
And  spoken  of  in  sacred  whispers. 

Well, 

I'm  glad  that  Elenor  Murray  had  her  fling, 
If  that  be  really  true.     I  understand 
What  drove  her  to  the  war.     I  think  she  knew 
Too  much  to  marry,  settle  down  and  live 
Under  the  rule  of  Demos  or  of  Hogos. 
I  wish  we  had  a  dozen  Elenor  Murrays 
In  every  village  in  this  land  of  Demos 
To  down  Theocracy,  which  is  just  as  bad 
As  Prussianism,  is  no  different 
From  Prussianism.     And  I  fear  but  this 
As  fruitage  of  the  war:  that  men  and  women 
Will  have  burnt  on  their  souls  the  words  ceramic 
That  war's  the  thing,  and  this  theocracy, 
Where  generous  outlets  for  the  soul  are  stopped 
Will  keep  the  words  in  mind.     When  boredom  comes, 
And  grows  intolerable,  you'll  see  the  land 
Go  forth  to  war  to  get  a  thrill  and  live  — 
Unless  we  work  for  freedom,  for  delight 
And  self-expression. 


Dwight  Henry  is  another  writer  of  letters, 
Stirred  by  the  Murray  inquest;  writes  a  screed 

[253] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

"  The  House  that  Jack  Built,"  read  by  Merival 
To  entertain  his  jury,  in  these  words: 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT 

Why  don't  they  come  to  me  to  find  the  cause 
Of  Elenor  Murray's  death?     The  house  is  first; 
That  is  the  world,  and  Jack  is  God,  you  know; 
The  malt  is  linen,  purple,  wine  and  food, 
The  rats  that  get  the  malt  are  nobles,  lords, 
Those  who  had  feudal  dues  and  hunting  rights, 
And  privileges,  first  nights,  all  the  rest. 
The  cats  are  your  Voltaires,  Rousseaus ;  the  dogs, 
Your  jailers,  Louis,  Fredericks  and  such. 
And  O,  you  blessed  cow,  you  common  people, 
Whom  maidens  all  forlorn  attend  and  milk. 
Here  is  your  Elenor  Murray  who  gives  hands, 
Brain,  heart  and  spirit  to  the  task  of  milking, 
And  straining  milk  that  other  lips  may  drink, 
Revive  and  flourish,  wedding,  if  she  weds, 
The  tattered  man  in  church,  which  is  your  priest 
Shaven  and  shorn,  and  wakened  with  the  sun 
By  the  cock,  theology  that  keeps  the  house 
Well  timed  and  ruled  for  honor  unto  Jack, 
Who  must  have  order,  rising  on  the  hour, 
And  ceremony  for  his  house. 

[254] 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT 

If  rats 

Had  never  lived,  or  left  the  malt  alone, 
This  girl  had  lived.     Let's  trace  the  story  down : 
We  went  to  France  to  fight,  we  go  to  France 
To  get  the  origin  of  Elenor's  death. 
It's  1750,  say,  the  malt  of  France 
And  Europe,  too,  is  over-run  by  rats; 
The  nobles  and  the  clergy  own  the  land, 
Exact  the  taxes,  drink  the  luscious  milk 
Of  the  crumpled  horns.     But  cats  come  slinking  by 
Called  Diderot,  Voltaire,  Rousseau.     Now  look! 
Cat  Diderot  goes  after  war  and  taxes, 
The  slave  trade,  privilege,  the  merchant  stomach. 
In  England,  too,  there  is  a  sly  grimalkin, 
Who  poisons  rats  with  most  malicious  thoughts, 
And  bears  the  name  of  Adam  —  Adam  Smith, 
By  Jack  named  Adam  just  to  signify 
His  sinful  nature.     But  the  cat  Voltaire 
Says  Adam  never  fell,  that  man  is  good, 
An  honest  merchant  better  than  a  king, 
And  shaven  priests  are  worse  than  parasites. 
He  rubs  his  glossy  coat  against  the  legs 
Of  Quakers,  loving  natures,  loathes  the  trade 
Of  war,  and  runs  with  velvet  feet  across 
The  whole  of  Europe,  scaring  rats  to  death. 
The  cat  Rousseau  is  instinct  like  a  cat, 
And  purrs  that  man  born  free  is  still  in  chains 
Here  in  this  house  that  Jack  built.     Consequence? 
There  is  such  squeaking,  running  of  the  rats, 
The  cats  in  North  America  wake  up 

[255] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  drive  the  English  rats  out ;  then  the  dogs 
Grow  cautious  of  the  cats,  poor  simple  Louis 
Convokes  a  French  assembly  to  preserve 
The  malt  against  the  rats  and  give  the  cow 
Whose  milk  is  growing  blue  and  thin  some  malt. 
And  all  at  once  rats,  cats  and  dogs,  the  cow, 
The  shaven  priest,  the  maiden  all  forlorn, 
The  tattered  man,  the  cock,  are  in  a  hubbub 
Of  squeaking,  caterwauling,  barking,  lowing, 
With  cock-a-doodles,  curses,  prayers  and  shrieks 
Ascending  from  the  melee.     In  a  word, 
You  have  a  revolution. 

All  at  once 

A  mastiff  dog  appears  and  barks :  "  Be  still." 
And  in  a  way  in  France's  room  in  the  house 
Brings  order  for  a  time.     He  grabs  the  fabric 
Of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire,  tears  it  up, 
Sends  for  the  shaven  priest  from  Rome  and  bites 
His  shrunken  calves;  trots  off  to  Jena  where 
He  whips  the  Prussian  dogs,  but  wakes  them  too 
To  breed  and  multiply,  grow  strong  to  fight 
All  other  dogs  in  Jack's  house,  bite  to  death 
The  maidens  all  forlorn,  like  Elenor  Murray. 

This  mastiff,  otherwise  Napoleon  called, 

Is  downed  at  last  by  dogs  from  everywhere. 

They're  rid  of  him  —  but  still  the  house  of  Jack 

Is  better  than  it  was,  the  rats  are  thick, 

But  cats  grow  more  abundant,  malt  is  served 

[256] 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT 

More  generously  to  the  cow.     The  Prussian  dogs 
Discover  malt's  the  thing,  also  the  cow 
Must  have  her  malt,  or  else  the  milk  gives  out. 
But  all  the  while  the  Prussian  dogs  grow  strong, 
Well  taught  and  angered  by  Napoleon. 
And  some  of  them  would  set  the  house  in  order 
After  the  manner  of  America. 
But  many  wish  to  fight,  get  larger  rooms, 
Then  set  the  whole  in  order.     At  Sadowa 
They  whip  the  Austrian  dogs,  and  once  again 
A  mastiff  comes,  a  Bismarck,  builds  a  suite 
From  north  to  south,  and  forces  Austria 
To  huddle  in  the  kitchen,  use  the  outhouse 
Where  Huns  and  Magyars,  Bulgars  and  the  rest 
Keep  Babel  under  Jack  who  split  their  tongues 
To  make  them  hate  each  other  and  suspect, 
Not  understanding  what  the  other  says. 
This  very  Babel  was  the  cause  of  death 
Of  Elenor  Murray,  if  I  chose  to  stop 
And  go  no  further  with  the  story. 

Next 

Our  mastiff  Bismarck  thinks  of  Luneville, 
And  would  avenge  it,  grabs  the  throat  of  France, 
And  downs  her ;  at  Versailles  growls  and  carries 
An  emperor  of  Germany  to  the  throne. 
Then  pants  and  wags  his  tail,  and  little  dreams 
A  dachshund  in  an  early  day  to  come 
Will  drive  him  from  the  kennel  and  the  bone 
He  loves  to  crunch  and  suck. 

[257] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

This  dachshund  is 

In  one  foot  crippled,  rabies  from  his  sires 
Lies  dormant  in  him,  in  a  day  of  heat 
Froth  from  his  mouth  will  break,  his  eyes  will  roll 
Like  buttons  made  of  pearl  with  glints  of  green. 
Already  he  feels  envy  of  the  dogs 
Who  wear  brass  collars,  bay  the  moon  of  Jack, 
And  roam  at  will  about  the  house  of  Jack, 
The  English,  plainer  said.     This  envy  takes 
The  form  of  zeal  for  country,  so  he  trots 
About  the  house,  gets  secrets  for  reforms 
For  Germany,  would  have  his  lesser  dogs 
All  merchants,  traders  sleek  and  prosperous, 
Achieve  a  noble  breed  to  rule  the  house. 
And  so  he  puts  his  rooms  in  order,  while 
The  other  dogs  look  on  with  much  concern 
And  growing  fear. 

The  business  of  the  house 
In  every  room  is  over  malt ;  the  cow 
Must  be  well  fed  for  milk.     And  if  you  have 
No  feudal  dues,  outlandish  taxes,  still 
The  game  of  old  goes  on,  has  only  changed 
Its  dominant  form.     Grimalkin,  Adam  Smith 
Spied  all  the  rats,  and  all  the  tricks  of  rats, 
Saw  in  his  day  the  rats  crawl  hawser  ropes 
And  get  on  ships,  embark  for  Indias, 
And  get  the  malt ;  and  now  the  merchant  ships 
For  China  bound,  for  Africa,  for  the  Isles 
Of  farthest  seas  take  rats,  who  slip  aboard 

[258] 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT 

And  eat  their  fill  before  the  patient  cow, 

Milked  daily  as  before  can  lick  her  tongue 

Against  a  mouthful  of  the  precious  stuff. 

You  have  your  eastern  question,  and  your  Congo. 

France  wants  Morocco,  gives  to  Germany 

Possessions  in  the  Congo  for  Morocco. 

The  dogs  jump  into  China,  even  we 

Take  part  and  put  the  Boxers  down,  lay  hands 

Upon  the  Philippines,  and  Egypt  falls 

To  England,  all  are  building  battle  ships. 

The  dachshund  barking  he  is  crowded  out, 

Encircled,  as  he  says,  builds  up  the  army, 

And  patriot  cocks  are  crowing  everywhere, 

Until  the  house  of  Jack  with  snarls  and  growls, 

The  fuff,  fuff,  fuff  of  cats  seems  on  the  eve 

Of  pandemonium.     The  Germans  think 

The  Slavs  want  Europe,  and  the  Slavs  are  sure 

The  Germans  want  it,  and  it's  all  for  malt. 

Meantime  the  Balkan  Babel  leads  to  war. 

The  Slavic  peoples  do  not  like  the  rule 

Of  Austro-Hungary,  but  the  latter  found 

No  way  except  to  rule  the  Slavs  and  rule 

Southeastern  Europe,  being  crowded  out 

By  mastiff  Bismarck.     And  again  there's  Jack 

Who  made  confusion  of  the  Balkan  tongues. 

And  so  the  house  awaits  events  that  look 

As  if  Jack  willed  them,  anyway  a  thing 

That  may  be  put  on  Jack.     It  comes  at  last. 

All  have  been  armed  for  malt.     A  crazy  man 

Has  armed  himself  and  shoots  a  king  to  be, 

[259] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  Archduke  Francis,  on  the  Serbian  soil, 

Then  Austria  moves  on  Serbia,  Russia  moves 

To  succor  Serbia,  France  is  pledged  to  help 

The  Russians,  but  our  dachshund  has  a  bond 

With  Austria  and  rushes  to  her  aid. 

Then  England  must  protect  the  channel,  yes, 

France  must  be  saved  —  and  here  you  have  your  war. 

And  now  for  Elenor  Murray.     Top  of  brain 
Where  ideals  float  like  clouds,  we  owed  to  France 
A  debt,  but  had  we  paid  it,  if  the  dog, 
The  dachshund,  mad  at  last,  had  left  our  ships 
To  freedom  of  the  seas?     Say  what  you  will, 
This  England  is  the  smartest  thing  in  time, 
Can  never  fall,  be  conquered  while  she  keeps 
That  mind  of  hers,  those  eyes  that  see  all  things, 
Spies  or  no  spies,  knows  every  secret  hatched 
In  every  corner  of  the  house  of  Jack. 
And  with  one  language  spoken  by  more  souls 
Than  any  tongud,  leads  minds  by  written  words ; 
Writes  treaties,  compacts  which  forstall  the  sword, 
And  makes  it  futile  when  it's  drawn  against  her.  .  . 
You  cuff  your  enemy  at  school  or  make 
A  naso-digital  gesture,  coming  home 
You  fear  your  enemy,  so  walk  beside 
The  gentle  teacher;  if  your  enemy 
Throws  clods  at  you,  he  hits  the  teacher.     Well, 
'Twas  wise  to  hide  munitions  back  of  skirts, 
And  frocks  of  little  children,  most  unwise 
For  Dachshund  William  to  destroy  the  skirts 
[260] 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT 

And  frocks  to  sink  munitions,  since  the  wearers 
Happened  to  be  Americans.     William  fell 
Jumping  about  his  room  and  spilled  the  clock, 
Raked  off  the  mantel;  broke  his  billikens, 
His  images  of  Jack  by  doing  this. 
For,  seeing  this,  we  rise;  ten  million  youths 
Take  guns  for  war,  and  many  Elenor  Murrays 
Swept  out  of  placid  places  by  the  ripples 
Cross  seas  to  serve. 

This  girl  was  French  in  part, 
In  spirit  was  American.     Look  back 
Do  you  not  see  Voltaire  lay  hold  of  her, 
Hands  out  of  tombs  and  spirits,  from  the  skies 
Lead  her  to  Europe?     Trace  the  causes  back 
To  Adam,  or  the  dwellers  of  the  lakes, 
It  is  enough  to  see  the  souls  that  stirred 
The  Revolution  of  the  French  which  drove 
The  ancient  evils  from  the  house  of  Jack. 
It  is  enough  to  hope  that  from  this  war 
The  vestiges  of  feudal  wrongs  shall  lie 
In  Jack's  great  dust-pan,  swept  therein  and  thrown 
In  garbage  cans  by  maidens  all  forlorn, 
The  Fates  we'll  call  them  now,  lame  goddesses, 
Hags  halt,  far  sighted,  seeing  distant  things, 
Near  things  but  poorly  —  this  is  much  to  hope ! 
But  if  we  get  a  freedom  that  is  free 
For  Elenor  Murrays,  maidens  all  forlorn, 
And  tattered  men,  and  so  prevent  the  wars, 
Already  budding  in  this  pact  of  peace, 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

This  war  is  good,  and  Elenor  Murray's  life 
Not  waste,  but  gain. 

Now  for  a  final  mood, 
As  it  were  second  sight.     I  open  the  door, 
Walk  from  the  house  of  Jack,  look  at  the  roof, 
The  chimneys,  over  them  see  depths  of  blue. 
Jack's  house  becomes  a  little  ark  that  sails, 
Tosses  and  bobbles  in  an  infinite  sea. 
And  all  events  of  evil,  war  and  strife, 
The  pain  and  folly,  test  of  this  and  that, 
The  groping  from  one  thing  to  something  else, 
Old  systems  turned  to  new,  old  eras  dead, 
New  eras  rising,  these  are  ripples  all 
Moving  from  some  place  in  the  eternal  sea 
Where  Jack  is  throwing  stones, —  these  ripples  lap 
Against  the  house  of  Jack,  or  toss  it  so 
The  occupants  go  reeling  here  and  there, 
Laugh,  scowl,  grow  sick,  tread  on  each  other's  toes. 
While  all  the  time  the  sea  is  most  concerned 
With  tides  and  currents,  little  with  the  house, 
Ignore  this  Elenor  Murray  or  Voltaire, 
Who  living  and  who  dying  reproduce 
Ripples  upon  the  pools  of  time  and  place, 
That  knew  them;  and  so  on  where  neither  eye 
Nor  mind  can  trace  the  ripples  vanishing 
In  ether,  realms  of  spirit,  what  you  choose! 


Now  on  a  day  when  Merival  was  talking 
More  evidence  at  the  inquest,  he  is  brought 

[262] 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT 

The  card  of  Mary  Black,  associate 

Of  Elenor  Murray  in  the  hospital 

Of  France,  and  asks  the  coroner  to  hear 

What  Elenor  Murray  suffered  in  the  war. 

And  Merival  consents  and  has  her  sworn ; 

She  testifies  as  follows  to  the  jury: 

Poor  girl,  she  had  an  end !     She  seems  to  me 
A  torch  stuck  in  a  bank  of  clay,  snuffed  out, 
Her  warmth  and  splendor  wasted.     Never  girl 
Had  such  an  ordeal  and  a  fate  before. 
She  was  the  lucky  one  at  first,  and  then 
Evils  and  enemies  flocked  down  upon  her, 
And  beat  her  to  the  earth. 

But  when  we  sailed 
You  never  saw  so  radiant  a  soul, 
While  most  of  us  were  troubled,  for  you  know 
Some  were  in  gloom,  had  quarreled  with  their  beaux, 
Who  did  not  say  farewell.     And  there  were  some 
Who  talked  for  weeks  ahead  of  seeing  beaux 
And  having  dinners  with  them  who  missed  out. 


We  were  a  tearful,  a  deserted  lot. 

And  some  were  apprehensive  —  well  you  know! 

But  Elenor,  she  had  a  beau  devoted 

Who  sent  her  off  with  messages  and  love, 

And  comforts  for  her  service  in  the  war. 

And  so  her  face  was  lighted,  she  was  gay, 

[263] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  said  to  us:  "  How  wonderful  it  is 
To  serve,  to  nurse,  to  play  our  little  part 
For  country,  for  democracy."     And  to  me 
She  said :  "  My  heart  is  brimming  over  with  love. 
Now  I  can  work  and  nurse,  now  use  my  hands 
To  soothe  and  heal,  which  burn  to  finger  tips, 
With  flame  for  service." 

Oh  she  had  the  will, 
The  courage,  resolution ;  but  at  last 
They  broke  her  down.     And  this  is  how  it  was: 
Her  love  for  someone  gave  her  zeal  and  grace 
For  watching,  working,  caring  for  the  sick. 
Her  heart  was  in  the  cause  too  —  but  this  love 
Gave  beauty,  passion  to  it.     All  her  men 
Stretched  out  to  kiss  her  hands.     It  may  be  true 
The  wounded  soldier  is  a  grateful  soul. 
But  in  her  case  they  felt  a  warmer  flame, 
A  greater  tenderness.     So  she  won  her  spurs, 
And  honors,  was  beloved,  she  had  a  brain, 
A  fine  intelligence.     Then  at  the  height 
Of  her  success,  she  disobeyed  a  doctor  — 
He  was  a  pigmy  —  Elenor  knew  more 
Than  he  did,  but  you  know  the  discipline: 
War  looses  all  the  hatreds,  meanest  traits 
Together  with  the  noblest,  so  she  crumpled, 
Was  disciplined  for  this.     About  this  time 
A  letter  to  the  head  nurse  came  —  there  was 
A  Miriam  Fay,  who  by  some  wretched  fate 
Was  always  after  Elenor  —  it  was  she 

[264] 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT 

Who  wrote  the  letter,  and  the  letter  said 
To  keep  a  watch  on  Elenor,  lest  she  snag 
Some  officer  or  soldier.     Elenor, 
Who  had  no  caution,  venturesome  and  brave, 
Wrote  letters  more  than  frank  to  one  she  loved 
Whose  tenor  leaked  out  through  the  censorship. 
Her  lover  sent  her  telegrams,  all  opened, 
And  read  first  by  the  head  nurse.     So  at  last 
Too  much  was  known,  and  Elenor  was  eyed, 
And  whispers  ran  around.     Those  ugly  girls, 
Who  never  had  a  man,  were  wagging  tongues, 
And  still  her  service  was  so  radiant, 
So  generous  and  skillful  she  survived, 
Helped  by  the  officers,  the  leading  doctors, 
Who  liked  her  and  defended  her,  perhaps 
In  hopes  of  winning  her  —  you  know  the  game! 
It  was  through  them  she  went  to  Nice;  but  when 
She  came  back  to  her  duty  all  was  ready 
To  catch  her  and  destroy  her  —  envy  played 
Its  part,  as  you  can  see. 

Our  unit  broke, 

And  some  of  us  were  sent  to  Germany, 
And  some  of  us  to  other  places  —  all 
Went  with  some  chum,  associate.     But  Elenor, 
Who  was  cut  off  from  every  one  she  knew, 
And  shipped  out  like  an  animal  to  be 
With  strangers,  nurses,  doctors,  wholly  strange. 
The  head  nurse  passed  the  word  along  to  watch  her. 
And  thus  it  was  her  spirit,  once  aflame 

[265] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

For  service  and  for  country,  fed  and  brightened 
By  love  for  someone,  thus  was  left  to  burn 
In  darkness  and  in  filth. 


The  hospital 

Was  cold,  the  rain  poured,  and  the  mud  was  frightful 
Poor  Elenor  was  writing  me  —  the  food 
Was  hardly  fit  to  eat.     To  make  it  worse 
They  put  her  on  night  duty  for  a  month. 
Smallpox  broke  out  and  they  were  quarantined. 
A  nurse  she  chose  to  be  her  friend  was  stricken 
With  smallpox,  died  and  left  her  all  alone. 
One  rainy  morning  she  heard  guns  and  knew 
A  soldier  had  been  stood  against  the  wall. 
He  was  a  boy  from  Texas,  driven  mad 
By  horror  and  by  drink,  had  killed  a  Frenchman. 
She  had  the  case  of  crazy  men  at  night, 
And  one  of  them  got  loose  and  knocked  her  down, 
And  would  have  killed  her,  had  an  orderly 
Not  come  in  time.     And  she  was  cold  at  night, 
Sat  bundled  up  so  much  she  scarce  could  walk 
There  in  that  ward  on  duty.     Everywhere 
They  thwarted  her  and  crossed  her,  she  was  nagged, 
Brow-beaten,  driven,  hunted  and  besought 
For  favors,  for  the  word  was  well  around 
She  was  the  kind  who  could  be  captured  —  false, 
The  girl  was  good  whatever  she  had  done. 
All  this  she  suffered,  and  her  lover  now 
Had  cast  her  off,  it  seems,  had  ceased  to  write, 

[266] 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT 

Had  gone  back  to  America  —  even  then 
They  did  not  wholly  break  her. 

But  I  ask 

What  soldier  or  what  nurse  retained  his  faith, 
The  splendor  of  his  flame?     I  wish  to  God 
They'd  pass  a  law  and  make  it  death  to  write 
Or  speak  of  war  as  glory,  or  as  good. 
What  good  can  come  of  hatred,  greed  and  murder? 
War  licenses  these  passions,  legalizes 
All  infamies.     They  talk  of  cruelties  — 
We  shot  the  German  captives  —  and  I  nursed 
A  boy  who  shot  a  German,  with  two  others 
Rushed  on  the  fallen  fellow,  ran  him  through, 
Through  eyes  and  throat  with  bayonets.     The  world 
Is  better,  is  it  ?     And  if  Indians  scalped 
Our  women  for  the  British,  and  if  Sherman 
Cut  through  the  south  with  sword  and  flame,  to-day 
Such  terrors  should  not  be,  we  are  improved! 
Yes,  hate  and  lust  have  changed,  and  maniac  rage, 
And  rum  has  lost  its  potency  to  fire 
A  nerve  that  sickens  at  the  bloody  work 
Where  men  are  butchered  as  you  shoot  and  slash 
An  animal  for  food! 

Well,  now  suppose 

The  preachers  who  preach  Jesus  meek  and  mild, 
But  fulminate  for  slaughter,  when  the  game 
Of  money  turns  its  thumbs  down ;  if  your  statesmen 
With  hardened  arteries  and  hardened  hearts, 

[267] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Who  make  a  cult  of  patriotism,  gain 

Their  offices  and  livelihood  thereby; 

Your  emperors  and  kings  and  chancellors, 

Who  glorify  themselves  and  win  sometimes 

Lands  for  their  people;  and  your  editors 

Who  whip  the  mob  to  fury,  bellies  fat, 

Grown  cynical,  and  rich,  who  cannot  lose, 

No  matter  what  we  suffer  —  if  we  nurses, 

And  soldiers  fail ;  your  patriotic  shouters 

Of  murder  and  of  madness,  von  Bernhardis, 

Treitschkes,  making  pawns  of  human  life 

To  shape  a  destiny  they  can't  control  — 

Your  bankers  and  your  merchants  —  all  the  gang 

Who  shout  for  war  and  pay  the  orators, 

Arrange  the  music  —  if  I  say  —  this  crowd 

Finds  us,  the  nurses  and  the  soldiers,  cold, 

Our  fire  of  youth  and  faith  beyond  command, 

Too  wise  to  be  enlisted  or  enslaved, 

What  will  they  do  who  shout  for  war  so  much  ? 

And  haven't  we,  the  nurses  and  the  soldiers 
Written  some  million  stories  for  the  eyes 
Of  boys  and  girls  to  read  these  fifty  years? 
And  if  they  read  and  understand,  no  war 
Can  come  again.     They  can't  have  war  without 
The  spirit  of  your  Elenor  Murrays  —  no ! 


So  Mary  Black  went  on,  and  Merival 

Gave  liberty  to  her  to  talk  her  mind. 

The  jury  smiled  or  looked  intense  for  words 

[268] 


THE  HOUSE  THAT  JACK  BUILT 

So  graphic  of  the  horrors  of  the  war. 

Then  David  Barrow  asked :  "  Who  is  the  man 

That  used  to  write  to  Elenor,  went  away?  " 

And  Mary  Black  replied,  "  We  do  not  know; 

I  do  not  know  a  girl  who  ever  knew. 

I  only  know  that  Elenor  wept  and  grieved, 

And  did  her  duty  like  a  little  soldier. 

It  was  some  man  who  came  to  France,  because 

The  word  went  round  he  had  gone  back,  and  left 

The  service,  or  the  service  there  in  France 

Had  left.     Some  said  he'd  gone  to  England,  some 

America.     He  must  have  been  an  American, 

Or  rather  in  America  when  she  sailed, 

Because  she  went  off  happy.     In  New  York 

Saw  much  of  him  before  we  sailed." 

And  then 

The  Reverend  Maiworm  juryman  spoke  up  — 
This  Mary  Black  had  left  the  witness  chair  — 
And  asked  if  Gregory  Wenner  went  to  France. 
The  coroner  thought  not,  but  would  inquire. 


Jane  Fisher  was  a  friend  of  Elenor  Murray's 
And  held  the  secret  of  a  pack  of  letters 
Which  Elenor  Murray  left.     And  on  a  day 
She  talks  with  Susan  Hamilton,  a  friend. 
Jane  Fisher  has  composed  a  letter  to 
A  lawyer  in  New  York,  who  has  the  letters  — 
At  least  it  seems  so  —  and  to  get  the  letters, 
And  so  fulfill  the  trust  which  Elenor 

[269] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Had  left  to  Jane.     Meantime  the  coroner 

Had  heard  somehow  about  the  letters,  or 

That  Jane  knows  something  —  she  is  anxious  now, 

And  in  a  flurry,  does  not  wish  to  go 

Down  to  LeRoy  and  tell  her  story.     So 

She  talks  with  Susan  Hamilton  like  this: 


JANE  FISHER 

Jane  Fisher  says  to  Susan  Hamilton, 
That  Coroner  has  no  excuse  to  bring 
You,  me  before  him.     There  are  many  too 
Who  could  throw  light  on  Elenor  Murray's  life 
Besides  the  witnesses  he  calls  to  tell 
The  cause  of  death:  could  he  call  us  and  hear 
About  the  traits  we  know,  he  should  have  us. 
What  do  we  know  of  Elenor  Murray's  death? 
Why,  not  a  thing,  unless  her  death  began 
With  Simeon  Strong  and  Gregory  Wenner  —  then 
I  could  say  something,  for  she  told  me  much 
About  her  plan  to  marry  Simeon  Strong, 
And  could  have  done  so  but  for  Gregory  Wenner, 
Whose  fault  of  life  combined  with  fault  of  hers 
To  break  the  faith  of  Simeon  Strong  in  her. 
And  so  what  have  we?     Gregory  Wenner's  love 
Poisons  the  love  of  Simeon  Strong,  from  that 
Poor  Elenor  Murray  falls  into  decline; 
From  that,  re-acts  to  nursing  and  religion, 
Which  leads  her  to  the  war;  and  from  the  war 
[270] 


JANE  FISHER 

Some  other  causes  come,  I  know  not  what ; 
I  wish  I  knew.     And  Elenor  Murray  dies, 
Is  killed  or  has  a  normal  end  of  life. 

But,  Susan,  Elenor  Murray  feasted  richly 

While  life  was  with  her,  spite  of  all  the  pain. 

If  you  could  choose,  be  Elenor  Murray  or 

Our  schoolmate,  Mary  Marsh,  which  would  you  be? 

Elenor  Murray  had  imagination, 

And  courage  to  sustain  it;  Mary  Marsh 

Had  no  imagination,  was  afraid, 

Could  not  envision  life  in  Europe,  married 

And  living  there  in  England,  threw  her  chance 

Away  to  live  in  England,  was  content, 

And  otherwise  not  happy  but  to  lift 

Her  habitation  from  the  west  of  town 

And  settle  on  the  south  side,  wed  a  man 

Whose  steadiness  and  business  sense  made  sure 

A  prosperous  uniformity  of  life. 

Life  does  not  enter  at  your  door  and  seek  you, 

And  pour  her  gifts  into  your  lap.     She  drops 

The  chances  and  the  riches  here  and  there. 

They  find  them  who  fly  forth,  as  faring  birds 

Know  northern  marshes,  rice  fields  in  the  south; 

While  the  dull  turtle  waddles  in  his  mud. 

The  bird  is  slain  perhaps,  the  turtle  lives, 

But  which  has  known  the  thrills? 

Well,  on  a  time 
Elenor  Murray,  Janet  Stearns,  myself 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Thought  we  would  see  Seattle  and  Vancouver, 
We  had  saved  money  teaching  school  that  year  — 
The  plan  was  Elenor  Murray's.     So  we  sailed 
To  'Frisco  from  Los  Angeles,  saw  'Frisco 
By  daylight,  but  to  see  the  town  by  night 
Was  Elenor  Murray's  wish,  and  up  to  now 
We  had  no  men,  had  found  none.     Elenor  said, 
"  Let's  go  to  Palo  Alto,  find  some  men." 
We  landed  in  a  blinding  sun,  and  walked 
About  the  desolate  campus,  but  no  men. 
And  Janet  and  myself  were  tired  and  hot ; 
But  Elenor,  who  never  knew  fatigue, 
Went  searching  here  and  there,  and  left  us  sitting 
Under  a  palm  tree  waiting.     Hours  went  by, 
Two  hours,  I  think,  when  she  came  down  the  walk 
A  man  on  either  side.     She  brought  them  up 
And  introduced  them.     They  were  gay  and  young, 
Students  with  money.     Then  the  fun  began : 
We  wished  to  see  the  place,  must  hurry  back 
To  keep  engagements  in  the  city  —  whew ! 
How  Elenor  Murray  baited  hooks  for  us 
With  words  about  the  city  and  our  plans ; 
What  fun  we  three  had  had  already  there ! 
Until  at  last  these  fellows  begged  to  come, 
Return  with  us  to  'Frisco,  be  allowed 
To  join  our  party.     "  Could  we  manage  it?  " 
Asked  Elenor  Murray,  "  do  you  think  we  can?  " 
We  fell  into  the  play  and  talked  it  over, 
Considered  this  and  that,  resolved  the  thing, 
And  said  at  last  to  come,  and  come  they  did.  .  .  . 
[272] 


JANE  FISHER 

Well,  such  a  time  in  'Frisco.     For  you  see 
Our  money  had  been  figured  down  to  cents 
For  what  we  planned  to  do.     These  fellows  helped, 
We  scarcely  had  seen  Trisco  but  for  them. 
They  bought  our  dinners,  paid  our  way  about 
Through  China  Town  and  so  forth,  but  we  kept 
Our  staterooms  on  the  boat,  slept  on  the  boat. 
And  after  three  days'  feasting  sailed  away 
With  bouquets  for  each  one  of  us. 

But  this  girl 

Could  never  get  enough,  must  on  and  on 
See  more,  have  more  sensations,  never  tired. 
And  when  we  saw  Vancouver  then  the  dream 
Of  going  to  Alaska  entered  her. 
I  had  no  money,  Janet  had  no  money 
To  help  her  out,  and  Elenor  was  short. 
We  begged  her  not  to  try  it  —  what  a  will! 
She  set  her  jaw  and  said  she  meant  to  go. 
And  when  we  missed  her  for  a  day,  behold 
We  find  her,  she's  a  cashier  in  a  store, 
And  earning  money  there  to  take  the  trip. 
Our  boat  was  going  back,  we  left  her  there. 
I  see  her  next  when  school  commences,  ruling 
Her  room  of  pupils  at  Los  Angeles. 
The  summer  after  this  she  wandered  east, 
Was  now  engaged  to  Simeon  Strong,  but  writing 
To  Gregory  Wenner,  saw  him  in  Chicago. 
She  traveled  to  New  York,  he  followed  her. 
She  was  a  girl  who  had  to  live  her  life, 

[273] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Could  not  live  through  another,  found  no  man 
Whose  life  sufficed  for  hers,  must  live  herself, 
Be  individual. 

And  en  route  for  France 

She  wrote  me  from  New  York,  was  seeing  much 
Of  Margery,  an  aunt  —  I  never  knew  her, 
But  sensed  an  evil  in  her,  and  a  mind 
That  used  the  will  of  Elenor  Murray  —  how 
Or  why,  I  knew  not.     But  she  wrote  to  me 
This  Margery  had  brought  her  lawyer  in, 
There  in  New  York  to  draw  a  document, 
And  put  some  letters  in  a  safety  box. 
Whose  letters?     Gregory  Wenner's?     I  don't  know. 
She  told  me  much  of  secrets,  but  of  letters 
That  needed  for  their  preciousness  a  box, 
A  lawyer  to  arrange  the  matter,  nothing. 
For  if  there  was  another  man,  she  felt 
Too  shamed,  no  doubt,  to  tell  me:  — "  This  is  he, 
The  love  I  sought,  the  great  reality," 
When  she  had  said  as  much  of  Gregory  Wenner. 
But  now  a  deeper  matter :  with  this  letter 
She  sent  a  formal  writing  giving  me 
Charge  of  these  letters,  if  she  died  to  give 
The  letters  to  the  writer.     I'm  to  know 
The  identity  of  the  writer,  so  she  planned 
When  I  obtain  them.     How  about  this  lawyer, 
And  Margery  the  aunt?     What  shall  I  do? 
Write  to  this  lawyer  what  my  duty  is 
Appointed  me  of  her,  go  to  New  York? 

[274] 


JANE  FISHER 

I  must  do  something,  for  this  lawyer  has, 
As  I  believe,  no  knowledge  of  my  place 
In  this  affair.     Who  has  the  box's  key? 
This  lawyer,  or  the  aunt  —  I  have  no  key  — 
And  if  they  have  the  key,  or  one  of  them, 
And  enter,  take  the  letters,  look!  our  friend 
Gets  stains  upon  her  memory;  or  the  man 
Who  wrote  the  letters  finds  embarrassment. 
Somehow,  I  think,  these  letters  hold  a  secret, 
The  deepest  of  her  life  and  crudest, 
And  figured  in  her  death.     My  dearest  friend, 
What  if  they  brought  me  to  the  coroner, 
If  I  should  get  these  letters,  and  they  learned 
I  had  them,  this  relation  to  our  Elenor! 
Yet  how  can  I  neglect  to  write  this  lawyer 
And  tell  him  Elenor  Murray  gave  to  me 
This  power  of  disposition? 

Come  what  may 

I  must  write  to  this  lawyer.     Here  I  write 
To  get  the  letters,  and  obey  the  wish 
Of  our  dear  friend.     Our  friend  who  never  could 
Carry  her  ventures  to  success,  but  always 
Just  at  the  prosperous  moment  wrecked  her  hope. 
She  really  wished  to  marry  Simeon  Strong. 
Then  why  imperil  such  a  wish  by  keeping 
This  Gregory  Wenner  friendship  living,  go 
About  with  Gregory  Wenner,  fill  the  heart 
Of  Simeon  Strong  with  doubt? 

[275] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Oh  well,  my  friend, 
We  wonder  at  each  other,  I  at  you, 
And  you  at  me,  for  doing  this  or  that. 
And  yet  I  think  no  man  or  woman  acts 
Without  a  certain  logic  in  the  act 
Of  nature  or  of  circumstance. 

Look  Jiere, 

This  letter  to  the  lawyer.     Will  it  do? 
I  think  so.     If  it  brings  the  letters  —  well! 
If  not,  I'll  get  them  somehow,  it  must  be, 
I  loved  her,  faults  and  all,  and  so  did  you.  .  .  . 

So  while  Jane  Fisher  pondered  on  her  duty, 
But  didn't  write  the  letter  to  the  lawyer, 
Who  had  the  charge  of  Elenor  Murray's  letters, 
The  lawyer,  Henry  Baker,  in  New  York 
Finds  great  perplexity.     Sometimes  a  case 
Walks  in  a  lawyer's  office,  makes  his  future, 
Or  wrecks  his  health,  or  brings  him  face  to  face 
With  some  one  rising  from  the  mass  of  things, 
Faces  and  circumstance,  tha«t  ends  his  life. 
So  Henry  Baker  took  such  chances,  taking 
The  custody  of  these  letters. 

James  Rex  Hunter 
Is  partner  of  this  Baker,  sees  at  last 
Merival  and  tells  him  how  it  was 
With  Baker  at  the  last;  he  died  because 
Of  Elenor  Murray's  letters,  Hunter  told 
[276] 


HENRY  BAKER,  AT  NEW  YORK 

The  coroner  at  the  Waldorf.     Dramatized 
His  talk  with  Lawyer  Baker  in  these  words:  — 


HENRY  BAKER,  AT  NEW  YORK 

One  partner  may  consult  another  —  James, 
Here  is  a  matter  you  must  help  me  with, 
It's  coming  to  a  head. 

Well,  to  be  plain, 
And  to  begin  at  the  beginning  first, 
I  knew  a  woman  up  on  Sixty-third, 
Have  known  her  since  I  got  her  a  divorce, 
Married,  divorced,  before  —  last  night  we  quarreled, 
I  must  do  something,  hear  me  and  advise. 

She  is  a  woman  notable  for  eyes 
Bright  for  their  oblong  lights  in  them;  they  seem 
Like  crockery  vases,  rookwood,  where  the  light 
Shows  spectrally  almost  in  squares  and  circles. 
Her  skin  is  fair,  nose  hooked,  of  amorous  flesh, 
A  feaster  and  a  liver,  thinks  and  plans 
Of  money,  how-  to  get  it.     And  this  husband 
Whom  she  divorced  last  summer  went  away, 
And  left  her  to  get  on  as  best  she  could. 
All  legal  matters  settled,  we  went  driving  — 
This  story  can  be  skipped. 

[277] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Last  night  we  dined, 

Afterward  went  to  her  apartment.     First 
She  told  me  at  the  dinner  that  her  niece 
Named  Elenor  Murray  died  some  days  ago. 
I  sensed  what  she  was  after  • —  here's  the  point :  — 
She  followed  up  the  theme  when  we  returned 
To  her  apartment,  where  we  quarreled.     You  see 
I  would  not  do  her  bidding,  left  her  mad, 
In  silent  wrath  after  some  bitter  words. 
I  managed  her  divorce  as  I  have  said, 
Then  I  stepped  in  as  lover,  months  had  passed. 
When  Elenor  Murray  came  here  to  New  York, 
I  met  her  at  the  apartment  of  the  aunt 
Whose  name  is  Margery  Camp.     Before,  she  said 
Her  niece  was  here,  was  happy  and  in  love 
But  sorrowful  for  leaving,  just  the  talk 
That  has  no  meaning  till  you  see  the  subject 
Or  afterwards,  perhaps ;  it  passes  in 
One  ear  and  out  the  other.     Then  at  last 
One  afternoon  I  met  this  Elenor  Murray 
When  I  go  up  to  call  on  Margery  Camp. 
The  staging  of  the  matter  is  like  this : 
The  niece  looks  fagged,  is  sitting  on  the  couch, 
Has  loosed  her  collar  for  her  throat  to  feel 
The  air  about  it,  for  the  day  is  hot. 
And  Margery  Camp  goes  out,  brings  in  a  pitcher 
Of  absinthe  cocktails,  so  we  drink.     I  sit, 
Begin  to  study  what  is  done,  and  look 
This  Elenor  Murray  over,  get  the  thought 
That  somehow  Margery  Camp  has  taken  Elenor 
[278] 


HENRY  BAKER,  AT  NEW  YORK 

In  her  control  for  something,  has  begun 

To  use  her,  manage  her,  is  coiling  her 

With  dominant  will  or  cunning.     Then  I  look, 

See  Margery  Camp  observing  Elenor  Murray, 

Who  drinks  the  absinthe,  and  in  Margery's  eyes 

I  see  these  parallelograms  of  light 

Just  like  a  vase  of  crockery,  there  she  stands, 

Her  face  like  ivory,  and  laughs  and  shows 

Her  marvelous  teeth,  smooths  with  her  shapely  hands 

The  skirt  upon  her  hips.     Somehow  I  feel 

She  is  a  soul  who  watches  passion  work. 

Then  Elenor  Murray  rouses,  gets  her  spirits 

Out  of  the  absinthe,  rises  and  exclaims: 

"I'm  better  now;"  and  Margery  Camp  speaks  up, 

Poor  child,  in  intonation  like  a  doll 

That  speaks  from  reeds  of  steel,  no  sympathy 

Or  meaning  in  the  words.     The  interview 

Seems  spooky  to  me,  cold  and  sinister. 

We  drink  again  and  then  we  drink  again. 

And  what  with  her  fatigue  and  lowered  spirits, 

This  Elenor  Murray  drifts  in  talk  and  mood 

With  so  much  drink.     At  last  this  Margery  Camp 

Says  suddenly:  "  You'll  have  to  help  my  niece, 

There  is  a  matter  you  must  manage  for  her, 

We've  talked  it  over;  in  a  day  or  two 

Before  she  goes  away,  we'll  come  to  you." 

I  took  them  out  to  dinner,  after  dinner 

Drove  Margery  Camp  to  her  apartment,  then 

Went  down  with  Elenor  Murray  to  her  place. 

[279] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Then  in  a  day  or  two,  one  afternoon 

Margery  Camp  and  Elenor  Murray  came 

Here  to  my  office  with  a  bundle,  which 

This  Margery  Camp  was  carrying,  rather  large. 

And  Margery  Camp  was  bright  and  keen  as  winter. 

But  Elenor  Murray  seemed  a  little  dull, 

Abstracted  as  of  drink,  or  thought  perhaps. 

After  the  greeting  and  preliminaries, 

Margery  said  to  Elenor:  "  Better  tell 

What  we  have  come  for,  get  it  done  and  go." 

Then  Elenor  Murray  said:  "  Here  are  some  letters, 

I've  tied  them  in  this  package,  and  I  wish 

To  put  them  in  a  safety  box,  give  you 

One  key  and  keep,  the  other,  leave  with  you 

A  sealed  instruction,  which,  in  case  I  die, 

While  over-seas,  you  may  break  open,  read 

And  follow,  if  you  will."     She  handed  me 

A  writing  signed  by  her  which  merely  read 

What  I  have  told  you  —  here  it  is  —  you  see : 

"  When  legal  proof  is  furnished  I  am.  dead, 

Break  open  the  sealed  letter  which  will  give 

Instruction  for  you."     So  I  took  the  trust, 

Went  with  these  women  to  a  vault  and  placed 

The  letters  in  the  box,  gave  her  a  key, 

Kept  one  myself.     They  left.     At  dinner  time 

I  joined  them,  saw  more  evidence  of  the  will 

Of  Margery  Camp  controlling  Elenor's. 

Which  seemed  in  part  an  older  woman's  power 

Against  a  younger  woman's,  and  in  part 

Something   less   innocent.     We   ate   and   drank, 

[280] 


HENRY  BAKER,  AT  NEW  YORK 

I  took  them  to  their  places  as  before, 
And  didn't  see  this  Elenor  again. 


But  now  last  night  when  I  see  Margery 
She  says  at  once,  "  My  niece  is  dead ;  "  goes  on 
To  say,  no  other  than  herself  has  care 
Or  interest  in  her,  was  estranged  from  father, 
And  mother  too,  herself  the  closest  heart 
In  all  the  world,  and  therefore  she  must  look 
After  the  memory  of  the  niece,  and  adds: 
"  She  came  to  you  through  me,  I  picked  you  out 
To  do  this  business."     So  she  went  along 
With  this  and  that,  advancing  and  retreating 
To  catch  me,  bind  me.     Well,  I  saw  her  game, 
Sat  non-committal,  sipping  wine,  but  keeping 
The  wits  she  hoped  I'd  lose,  as  I  could  see. 

After  the  dinner  we  went  to  her  place 

And  there  she  said  these  letters  might  contain 

Something  to  smudge  the  memory  of  her  niece, 

She  wished  she  had  insisted  on  the  plan 

Of  having  one  of  the  keys,  the  sealed  instruction 

Made  out  and  left  with  her;  being  her  aunt, 

The  closest  heart  in  the  world  to  Elenor  Murray, 

That  would  have  been  the  right  way.     But  she  said 

Her  niece  was  willful  and  secretive,  too, 

Not  over  wise,  but  now  that  she  was  dead 

It  was  her  duty  to  reform  the  plan, 

Do  what  was  best,  and  take  control  herself. 

[281] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

So  working  to  the  point  by  devious  ways 

She  said  at  last:     "You  must  give  me  the  key, 

The  sealed  instruction:     I'll  go  to  the  box, 

And  get  the  letters,  do  with  them  as  Elenor 

Directed  in  the  letter ;  for  I  think, 

Cannot  believe  it  different,  that  my  niece 

Has  left  these  letters  with  me,  so  directs 

In  that  sealed  letter."     "  Then  if  that  be  true, 

Why  give  the  key  to  me,  the  letter?  —  no 

This  is  a  trust,  a  lawyer  would  betray, 

A  sacred  trust  to  do  what  you  request." 

I  saw  her  growing  angry.     Then  I  added: 

"  I  have  no  proof  your  niece  is  dead:  "     "  My  word 

Is  good  enough,"  she  answered,  "  we  are  friends, 

You  are  my  lover,  as  I  thought;  my  word 

Should  be  sufficient."     And  she  kept  at  me 

Until  I  said :     "I  can't  give  you  the  key, 

And  if  I  did  they  would  not  let  you  in, 

You  are  not  registered  as  a  deputy 

To  use  the  key."     She  did  not  understand, 

Did  not  believe  me,  but  she  tacked  about, 

And  said :  "  You  can  do  this,  take  me  along 

When  you  go  to  the  vault  and  open  the  box, 

And  break  the  letter  open  which  she  gave." 

I  only  answered:  "  If  I  find  your  niece 

Has  given  these  letters  to  you,  you  shall  have 

The  letters,  but  I  think  the  letters  go 

Back  to  the  writer,  and  if  that's  the  case, 

I'll  send  them  to  the  writer." 

[282] 


HENRY  BAKER,  AT  NEW  YORK 

Here  at  last 

She  lost  control,  took  off  her  mask  and  stormed : 
"  We'll  see  about  it.     You  will  scarcely  care 
To  have  the  matter  aired  in  court.     I'll  sec 
A  lawyer,  bring  a  suit  and  try  it  out, 
And  see  if  I,  the  aunt,  am  not  entitled 
To  have  my  niece's  letters  and  effects, 
Whatever's  in  the  package.     I  am  tired 
And  cannot  see  you  longer.     Take  five  days 
To  think  the  matter  over.     If  you  come 
And  do  what  I  request,  no  suit,  but  if 
You  still  refuse,  the  courts  can  settle  it.'* 
And  so  I  left  her. 


In  a  day  or  two 

I  read  of  Elenor  Murray's  death.     It  seems 
The  coroner  investigates  her  death. 
She  died  mysteriously.     Well,  then  I  break 
The  sealed   instruction,   look!     I   am  to  send 
The  package  to  Jane  Fisher  in  Chicago. 
We  know,  of  course,  Jane  Fisher  did  not  write 
The  letters,  that  the  letters  are  a  man's. 
What  is  the  inference?     Why,  that  Elenor  Murray 
Pretended  to  comply,  obey  her  aunt, 
Yet  slipped  between  her  fingers,  did  not  wish 
The  aunt  or  me  to  know  who  wrote  the  letters. 
Feigned  full  submission,  frankness  with  the  aunt, 
Yet  hid  her  secret,  hid  it  from  the  aunt 
Beyond  her  finding  out,  if  I  observe 

[283] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  trust  imposed,  keep  hands  of  Margery  Camp 
From  getting  at  the  letters. 

Now  two  things: 

Suppose  the  writer  of  the  letters  killed 
This  Elenor  Murray,  is  somehow  involved 
In  Elenor  Murray's  death?     If  that's  the  case, 
Should  not  these  letters  reach  the  coroner? 
To  help  enforce  the  law  is  higher  trust 
Than  doing  what  a  client  has  commanded. 
And  secondly,  if  Margery  Camp  should  sue, 
My  wife  will  learn  the  secret,  bring  divorce. 
Three  days  remain  before  the  woman's  threat 
Is  ripe  to  execute.     Think  over  this. 
We'll  talk  again  —  I  really  need  advice.  .  .  . 


So  Hunter  told  the  coroner.     Then   resumed 
The  matter  was  a  simple  thing:     I  said 
To  telegraph  the  coroner.     You  are  right: 
Those  letters  give  a  clue  perhaps,  your  trust 
Is  first  to  see  the  law  enforced.     And  yet 
I  saw  he  was  confused  and  drinking  too, 
For  fear  his  wife  would  learn  of  Margery  Camp. 
I  added,  for  that  matter  open  the  box, 
Take  out  the  letters,  find  who  wrote  them,  send 
A  telegram  to  the  coroner  giving  the  name 
Of  the  writer  of  the  letters.     Well,  he  nodded, 
Seemed  to  consent  to  anything  I  said. 
And  Hunter  left  me,  leaving  me  in  doubt 
What  he  would  do.     And  what  is  next?     Next  day 
[284] 


HENRY  BAKER,  AT  NEW  YORK 

He's  in  the  hospital  and  has  pneumonia. 

I  take  a  cab  to  see  him,  but  I  find 

He  is  too  sick  to  see,  is  out  of  mind. 

In  three  days  he  is  dead.     His  wife  comes  in 

And  tells  me  worry  killed  him  —  knows  the  truth 

About  this  Margery  Camp,  oh,  so  she  said. 

Had  sent  a  lawyer  to  her  husband  asking 

For  certain  letters  of  an  Elenor  Murray. 

And  that  her  husband  stood  between  the  fire 

Of  some  exposure  by  this  Margery  Camp, 

Or  suffering  these  letters  to  be  used 

By  Margery  Camp  against  the  writer  for 

A  bit  of  money.     This  was  Mrs.  Hunter's 

Interpretation.     Well,   the  fact  is  clear 

That  Hunter  feared  this  Margery  Camp  —  was  scared 

About  his  wife  who  in  some  way  had  learned 

Just  at  this  time  of  Margery  Camp  —  I  think 

Was  called  up,  written  to.     Between  it  all 

Poor  Hunter's  worry,  far  too  fast  a  life, 

He  broke  and  died.     And  now  you  know  it  all. 

I've  learned  no  client  enters  at  your  door 

And  nothing  casual  happens  in  the  day 

That  may  not  change  your  life,  or  bring  you  death. 

And  Hunter  in  a  liaison  with  Margery 

Is  brought  within  the  scope  of  Elenor's 

Life  and  takes  his  mortal  hurt  and  dies. 


So  much  for  riffles  in  New  York.     We  turn 
Back  to  LeRoy  and  see  the  riffles  there, 

[285] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

See  all  of  them  together.     Loveridge  Chase 
Receives  a  letter  from  a  New  York  friend, 
A  secret  service  man  who  trails  and  spies 
On  Henry  Baker,  knows  about  the  letters, 
And  writes  to  Loveridge  Chase  and  says  to  him: 
"  That  Elenor  Murray  dying  near  LeRoy 
Left  letters  in  New  York.     I  trailed  the  aunt 
Of  Elenor  Murray,  Margery  Camp.     Also 
A  lawyer,   Henry  Baker,  who  controls 
A  box  with  letters  left  by  Elenor  Murray  — 
So  for  the  story.     Why  not  join  with  me 
And  get  these  letters?     There  is  money  in  it, 
Perhaps,  who  knows?     I  work  for  Mrs.  Hunter  — 
She  wants  the  letters  placed  where  they  belong, 
And  wants  the  man  who  killed  this  Elenor  Murray 
Punished  as  he  should  be.     Go  see  the  coroner 
And  get  the  work  of  bringing  back  the  letters." 
And  Chase  came  to  the  coroner  and  spoke: 


LOVERIDGE  CHASE 

Here  is  the  secret  of  the  death  of  Elenor, 
From  what  I  learn  of  her,  from  what  I  know 
In  living,  knowing  women,  I  am  clear 
About  this  Elenor  Murray.     Give  me  power 
To  get  the  letters,  power  to  give  a  bond 
To  indemnify  the  company,  for  you  know 

[286] 


LOVERIDGE    CHASE 

Letters  belong  to  him  who  writes  the  letters; 
And  if  the  company  is  given  bond 
It  will  surrender  them,  and  then  you'll  know 
What  man  she  loved,  this  Gregory  Wenner  or 
Some  other  man,  and  if  some  other  man, 
Whether  he  caused  her  death. 

The  coroner 

And  Loveridge  Chase  sat  in  the  coroner's  office 
And  talked  the  matter  over.     And  the  coroner, 
Who  knew  this  Loveridge  Chase,  was  wondering 
Why  Loveridge  Chase  had  taken  up  the  work 
Of  secret  service,  followed  it,  and  asked, 
"  How  did  you  come  to  give  your  brains  to  this, 
Who  could  do  other  things?"     And  Loveridge  said: 
"  A  woman  made  me,  I  went  round  the  world 
As  Jackie  once,  was  brought  into  this  world 
By  a  mother  good  and  wise,  but  took  from  her, 
My  father,  someone,  sense  of  chivalry 
Too  noble  for  this  world,  a  pity  too, 
Abused  too  much  by  women.     I  came  back, 
Was  hired  in  a  bank;  had  I  gone  on 
By  this  time  had  been  up  in  banking  circles, 
But  something  happened.     You  can  guess,  I  think 
It  was  a  woman,  was  my  wife  Leone. 
It  matters  nothing  here,  except  I  knew 
This  Elenor  Murray  through  my  wife.     These  two 
Were  schoolmates,  even  chums.     I'll  get  these  letters 
If  you  commission  me.     The  fact  is  this : 

[287] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

I  think  this  Elenor  Murray  and  Leone 

Were  kindred  spirits,  and  it  does  me  good 

Now  that  I'm  living  thus  without  a  wife 

To  ferret  out  this  matter  of  Elenor  Murray, 

Perhaps  this  way,  or  somewhere  on  the  way, 

i7ind  news  of  my  Leone;  what  life  she  lives, 

And  where  she  is.     I'm  curious  still,  you  see." 

Then  Coroner  Merival,  who  had-  not  heard' 

Of  Elenor  Murray's  letters  in  New  York 

Before  this  talk  of  Loveridge  Chase,  who  heard 

This  story  and  analysis  of  Leone 

Mixed  in  with  other  talk,  and  got  a  light 

On  Elenor  Murray,  said :     "  I  know  your  work, 

Know  you  as  well,  have  confidence  in  you, 

Make  ready  to  go,  and  bring  the  letters  back." 


And  on  the  day  that  Loveridge  Chase  departs 
To  get  the  letters  in  New  York,  Bernard, 
A  veteran  of  Belleau,  married  that  day 
To  Amy  Whidden,  on  a  lofty  dune 
At  Millers,  Indiana,  with  his  bride - 
Long  quiet,   tells  her  something  of  the  war. 
These  soldiers  cannot  speak  what  they  have  lived. 
But  Elenor  Murray  helps  him;  for  the  talk 
Of  Elenor  Murray  runs  the  rounds,  so  many 
Stations  whence  the  talk  is  sent :  —  the  men 
Or  women  who  had  known  her,  came  in  touch 
Somehow  with  her.     These  newly  wedded  two 
[288] 


AT  NICE 

Go  out  to  see  blue  water,  yellow  sand, 

And  watch  the  white  caps  pat  the  sky,  and  hear 

The  intermittent  whispers  of  the  waves. 

And  here  Bernard,  the  soldier,  tells  his  bride 

Of  Elenor  Murray  and  their  days  at  Nice: 


AT  NICE 

Dear,  let  me  tell  you,  safe  beside  you  now, 
Your  hand  in  mine,  here  from  this  peak  of  sand, 
Under  this  pine  tree,  where  the  wild  grapes  spill 
Their  fragrance  on  the  lake  breeze,  from  that  oak 
Half   buried   in   the  sand,   devoured  by  sand  — 
The  water  of  the  lake  is  just  as  blue 
As  the  sea  is  there  at  Nice,  the  caps  as  white 
As  foam  around  Mont  Boron,  Cap  Ferrat. 
Here  let  me  tell  you  things  you  do  not  know, 
I  could  not  write,  repeat  what  well  you  know, 
How  love  of  you  sustained  me,  never  changed, 
But  through  a  love  was  brighter,  flame  of  the  torch 
I  bore  for  you  in  battle,  as  an  incense 
Cast  in  a  flame  awakes  the  deeper  essence 
Of  fire  and  makes  it  mount. 

And  I  am  here  — 

Here  now  with  you  at  last  —  the  war  is  over  — 
I  have  this  aching  side,  these  languid  mornings, 
And  pray  for  that  old  strength  which  never  knew 

[289] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Fatigue  or  pain  —  but  I  am  here  with  you, 

You  are  my  bride  now,  I  have  earned  you,  dear. 

I  fought  the  fight,  endured  the  endless  days 

When  rain  fell,  days  of  absence,  and  the  days 

Of  danger  when  my  only  prayer  was  this : 

Give  me,  O  God,  to  see  you  once  again. 

This  is  the  deepest  rapture,  tragedy 

Of  this  our  life,  beyond  our  minds  to  fathom, 

A  thing  to  stand  in  awe  of,  touch  in  reverence, 

That  we  —  we  mortals,  find  in  one  another 

Such  source  of  ecstasy,  of  pain.     My  love, 

I  lay  there  in  the  hospital  so  weak, 

Flopping  my  hands  upon  the  coverlet, 

And  praying  God  to  live.     In  such  an  hour 

To  be  away  from  you !     There  are  no  words 

To  speak  the  weary  hours  of  fear  and  thought, 

In  such  an  absence,  facing  death,  perhaps, 

A  burial  in  France,  with  thoughts  of  you, 

Mourning  some  years,  perhaps,  healed  partly  then 

And  wedded  to  another ;  then  at  last 

Myself  forgot,  or  nearly  so,  and  life 

Taking  you  on  with  duties,  house  and  children; 

And  my  poor  self  forgotten,  gone  to  dust, 

Wasted  along  the  soil  of  France. 

Thank  God, 

I'm  here  with  you  —  it's  real,  all  this  is  true: 
The  roar  of  the  water,  sand-hills,  infinite  sky, 
The  gulls,  the  distant  smoke,  the  smell  of  grapes, 
The  haze  of  amethyst  behind  us  there, 

[290] 


AT  NICE 

In  those  ravines  of  stunted  oak  and  pine. 

All  this  is  real.     This  is  America. 

The  very  air  we  find  from  coast  to  coast, 

The  sensible  air  for  lungs  seems  freer  here. 

I  had  no  sooner  landed  in  New  York 

Than  my  arms  said  stretch  out,  there's  room  to  stretch. 

I  walked  along  the  streets  so  happy,  light 

Of  heart  and  heard  the  newsboys,  shop-girls  talk: 

"  O,  what  a  cheese  he  is,"  or  "  beat  it  now  " — 

I  can't  describe  the  thrill  I  had  to  hear 

This  loose  abandoned  slang  spilled  all  around, 

Like  coppers  soiled  from  handling,  but  so  real, 

And  having  power  to  purchase  memories 

Of  what  I  loved  and  lost  awhile,  my  land! 

Well,  then  I  wanted  roast-beef,  corn  on  cob, 

And  had  them  in  an  hour  at  early  lunch. 

I  telegraphed  you,  gave  New  York  a  day, 

And  came  to  you.     We  are  together  now, 

We  do  not  dream,  do  we?     We  are  together 

After  the  war,  to  live  our  lives  and  grow 

And  make  of  love,  experience,  life  more  rich. 

That's  what  you  say  to  me  —  it  shall  be  so. 

Now  I  will  tell  you  what  I  promised  to  tell 
About  my  illness  and  the  battle  —  well, 
I  wrote  you  of  my  illness,  only  hinted 
About  the  care  I  had,  that  is  the  point; 
'Twas  care  alone  that  saved  me,  I  was  ill 
Beyond  all  words  to  tell.     And  all  the  while 
I  suffered,  fearing  I  would  die;  but  then 
[291] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

I  could  not  bear  to  think  I  should  not  rise 
To  join  my  fellows,  battle  once  again, 
And  charge  across  the  trenches,  take  no  part 
In  crushing  down  the  Prussian.     For  I  knew 
He  would  be  crushed  at  last.     I  could  not  bear 
To  think  I  should  not  take  a  hand  in  that, 
Be  there  when  he  lay  fallen,  victory 
From  voice  to  voice  should  pass  along  the  lines. 
Well,  for  some  weeks  I  lay  there,  and  at  last 
Words  dropped  around  me  that  the  time  was  near 
For  blows  to  count  —  would  I  be  there  to  strike? 
Could  I  get  well  in  time?     And  every  day 
A  sweet  voice  said:     "You're  better,  oh  it's  great 
How  you  are  growing  stronger;  yesterday 
Your  fever  was  but  one  degree,  to-day 
It  is  a  little  higher.     You  must  rest, 
Not  think  so  much!     It  may  be  normal  perhaps 
To-morrow  or  the  next  day.     In  a  week 
You  will  be  up  and  gaining,  and  the  battle 
Will  not  be  fought  before  then,  I  am  sure, 
And  not  until  you're  well  and  strong  again." 
And  thus  it  went  from  day  to  day.     Such  hands 
Washed  my  hot  face  and  bathed  me,  tucked  me  in, 
And  fed  me  too.     And  once  I  said  to  her: 
"  I  love  a  girl,  I  must  get  well  to  fight, 
I  must  get  well  to  go  to  her."     And  she, 
It  was  the  nurse  I  spoke  to,  took  my  hand, 
And  turned  away  with  tears.     You  see  it's  there 
We  see  the  big  things,  nothing  else,  the  things 
That  stand  out  like  the  mountains,  lesser  things 
[292] 


AT  NICE 

Are  lost  like  little  hillocks  under  the  shadows 
Of  great  emotions,  hopes,  realities. 
Well,  so  it  went.     And  on  a  day  she  leaned 
Above  my  face  to  smooth  the  pillow  out. 
And  from  her  heart  a  golden  locket  fell, 
And  dangled  by  the  silver  chain.     The  locket 
Flew  open  and  I  saw  a  face  within  it, 
That  is  I  saw  there  was  a  face,  but  saw 
No  eyes  or  hair,  saw  nothing  to  limn  out 
The  face  so  I  would  know  it. 

Then  I  said: 

"  You  have  a  lover,  nurse."     She  straightened  up 
And  questioned  me:     "  Have  you  been  ill  before? 
Do  you  know  of  the  care  a  nurse  can  give, 
And  what  she  can  withhold  ?  "     I  answered  "  Yes." 
And  then  she  asked :     "  Have  you  felt  in  my  hands 
Great  tenderness,  solicitude,  even  prayer?" — 
Here,  sweetheart,  do  not  let  your  eyes  get  moist, 
I'll  tell  you  everything,  for  you  must  see 
How  spirits  work  together,  love  to  love 
Passes  and  does  its  work. 

Well,    it  was   true, 

I  felt  her  tenderness,  which  was  like  prayer, 
And  so  I  answered  her:     "  If  I  get  well, 
You  will  have  cured  me  with  your  human  love." 
And  then  she  said :     "  Our  unit  reached  this  place 
When  there  was  neither  stoves  nor  lights.     At  night 
We  went  to  bed  by  candles.     Stumbled  around 

[293] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Amid  the  trunks  and  beds  by  candle  light. 

Well,  one  of  us  would  light  a  candle,  then 

Each,  one  by  one,  the  others  lighted  theirs 

From  this  one  down  the  room.     And  so  we  passed 

The  light  along.     And  as  a  candle  died, 

The  others  burned,  to  which  the  light  was  passed. 

Well,  now,"  she  said,  "  that  is  a  figure  of  love: 

We  get  the  flame  from  someone,  light  another, 

Make  brighter  light  by  holding  flame  to  flame  — 

Sometimes  we  searched  for  something,  held  two  candles 

Together  for  a  greater  light.     And  so, 

My  soldier,   I  have  given  you  the  care 

That  comes  from  love  —  of  country  and  the  cause, 

But  brightened,  warmed  by  one  from  whom  the  flame 

Was  passed  to  me,  a  love  that  took  my  hand 

And  warmed  it,  made  it  tender  for  that  love, 

Which  said  pour  out  and  serve,  take  love  for  him 

And  use  it  in  the  cause,  by  using  hands 

To  bathe,  to  soothe,  to  smooth  a  pillow  down, 

To  heal,  sustain." 


The  truth  is,  dearest  heart, 
I  had  not  lived,  I  think,  except  for  her. 
And  there  we  were:     I  filled  with  love  for  you, 
And  therefore  praying  to  get  well  and  fight, 
Be  worthy  of  your  love,  and  there  she  was 
With  love  for  someone,  striving  with  that  love 
To  nurse  me  through  and  give  me  well  and  strong 
To  battle  in  the  cause. 

[294] 


AT  NICE 

Then  I  got  well 

And  joined  my  company.     She  took  my  hand 
As  I  departed,  closed  her  eyes  and  said: 
"May  God  be  with  you." 

Well,  it  was  Belleau, 
That  jungle  of  machine  guns,  like  a  thicket 
Of  rattle  snakes.     And  there  was  just  one  thing 
To  clean  that  thicket  out  —  we  had  to  charge, 
And  so  we  yelled  and  charged.     No  soldier  knows 
How  one  survives  in  such  a  charge  as  that. 
You  simply  yell  and  charge ;  the  bullets  fall 
Like  drops  of  rain  around  you  pitter-pat; 
And  on  you  go  and  think :  where  will  it  get  me, 
The  stomach  or  the  heart  or  through  the  head? 
What  will  it  be  like,  sudden  blackness,  pain, 
No  pain  at  all?     And  so  you  charge  the  nests. 
The  fellows  fell  around  us  like  tenpins, 
Dropped  guns,  or  flung  them  up,  fell  on  their  faces, 
Or  toppled  backward,  pitched  ahead  and  flung 
Their  helmets  off  in  pitching.     And  at  last 
I  found  myself  half-dazed,  as  in  a  dream, 
Right  in  a  nest,  two  Boches  facing  me, 
And  then  I  saw  this  locket,  as  I  saw  it 
Fall  from  her  breast,  it  might  have  been  a  glint 
Of  metal,  flash  of  firing,  I  don't  know. 
I  only  know  I  ran  my  bayonet 
Through  one  of  them ;  he  fell,  I  stuck  the  other, 
Then  something  stung  my  side.     When  I  awoke 
I  lay  upon  a  cot,  and  heard  the  nurses 

[295] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Discuss  the  peace,  the  armistice  was  signed, 
The  war  was  over.     Well,  and  in  a  way 
We  won  the  war,  I  won  the  war,  as  one 
Who  did  his  part,  at  least. 

Then  I  got  up, 

But  I  was  weak  and  dazed.     They  said  to  me 
I  should  not  cross  the  ocean  in  the  winter, 
My  lungs  might  get  infected;  anyway, 
The  flu  was  raging.     So  they  sent  me  down 
To  Nice  upon  a  furlough,  as  I  wrote. 
I  could  not  write  you  all  I  saw  and  heard, 
It  was  all  lovely  and  all  memorable. 

But  first  before  I  picture  Nice  to  you, 

My  days  at  Nice,  lest  you  have  doubts  and  fears 

When  I  reveal  to  you  I  saw  this  nurse 

First  on  the  Promenade  des  Anglais  there, 

Saw  much  of  her  in  Nice,  I  saw  at  once 

She  was  that  Elenor  Murray  whom  they  found 

Along  the  river  dead ;  and  for  the  rest 

To  make  all  clear,  I'll  tell  you  everything. 

You  see  I  didn't  write  you  of  this  girl 

And  what  we  did  there,  lest  you  might  suspect 

Some  vagrant  mood  in  me  concealed  or  glossed, 

Which  ended  in  betrayal  of  our  love. 

Eyes  should  look  into  eyes  to  supplement 

The  words  of  truth  with  light  of  truth,  where  nothing 

Of  thoughts  that  hide  have  chance  to  slip  and  crawl 

Through  eyes  averted,  twinklings,  change  of  light, 

[296] 


AT  NICE 

Or  if  they  do,  reveal  themselves,  as  snakes 
Are  seen  when  winding  into  coverts  of  grass. 

Well,  then  we  met  upon  the  promenade. 

She  ran  toward  me,  kissed  me  —  oh  so  glad. 

I  told  her  of  the  battle,  of  my  wound. 

And  for  herself  it  seemed  she  had  been  ill, 

Off  duty  for  a  month  before  she  came 

To  Nice  for  health;  she  said  as  much  to  me. 

I  think  she  had  been  ill,  yet  I  could  sense, 

Or  seemed  to  sense  a  mystery,  I  don't  know, 

Behind   her   illness.     Yet  you   understand 

How  it  was  natural  we  should  be  happy 

To  meet  again,  in  Nice,  too.     For  you  see 

The  army  life  develops  comradeship. 

And  when  we  meet  the  old  life  rises  up 

And  wakes  its  thrills  and  memories.     It  seemed 

She  had  been  there  some  days  when  I  arrived 

And  knew  the  place,  and  said,  "  I'll  show  you  Nice." 

There  was  a  major  she  was  waiting  for, 

As  it  turned  out.     He  came  there  in  a  week, 

We  had  some  walks  together,  all  the  three, 

And  then  I  lost  them. 

But  before  he  came 

We  did  the  bright  cafes  and  Monte  Carlo, 
And  here  my  little  nurse  showed  something  else 
Besides  the  tender  hands,  the  prayerful  soul. 
She  had  been  taking  egg-nogs,  so  she  said, 
But  now  she  took  to  wine,  and  drink  she  could 

[297] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Beyond  all  men  I  know.     I  had  to  stop 
Or  fall  beneath  the  table,  leaving  her 
To  order  more.     And  she  would  sit  and  weave 
From  right  to  left  hip  in  a  rhythmic  way, 
And  cast  her  eyes  obliquely  right  and  left. 
It  was  this  way :     The  music  set  her  thrilling, 
And  keeping  time  this  way.     She  loved  to  go 
Where  we  could  see  cocotes,  adventurers; 
Where  red  vitality  was  feasting,  drinking, 
And  dropping  gold  upon  the  gaming  table. 
We  sunned  ourselves  within  the  Jardin  Public, 
And  walked  the  beach  between  the  bathing  places 
Where  they  dry  orange  peel  to  make  perfumes. 
And  in  that  golden  sunshine  by  the  sea 
Caught  whiffs  of  lemon  blossoms,  and  each  day 
I  bought  her  at  the  stands  acacia, 
Or  red  anemones  —  I  tell  you  all  — 
There  was  no  moment  that  my  thought  betrayed 
Your  heart,  dear  one.     She  had  been  good  to  me. 
I  saw  that  she  was  hungry  for  these  things, 
For  rapture,  so  I  gave  them  —  you  don't  mind, 
It  came  to  nothing,  dearest. 

But  at  last 

A  different  Elenor  Murray  than  I  knew 
There  in  the  hospital  took  shape  before  me. 
That  serving  soul,  that  maid  of  humble  tasks, 
And  sacrifice  for  others,  and  that  face 
Of  waitress  or  of  ingenue,  day  by  day 
Assumed  sophistication,  looks  and  lines 

[298] 


AT  NICE 

Of  knowledge  in  the  world,  experience 
In  places  of  patrician  ways.     She  knew 
New  York  as  well  as  I,  cafes  and  shops; 
Dropped  pregnant  hints  at  times  that  made  me  think 
What  more  she  knew,  what  she  was  holding  back. 
Until  at  last  all  she  had  done  for  me 
Seemed  just  what  mortals  do  to  earn  their  bread 
In  any  calling,  made  more  generous,  maybe, 
By  something  in  a  moment's  mood.     In  truth 
The  ideal  showed  the  clogged  pores  in  the  skin 
Under  the  light  she  stood  in.     For  you  know 
When  we  see  people  happy  we  can  say 
Those  tears  were  not  all  tears  —  we  pitied  more 
Than  we  were  wise  to  pity  —  that's  the  feeling : 
Most  men  are  Puritans  in  this,  I  think. 
A  woman  dancing,  drinking,  makes  you  laugh, 
And  half  despise  yourself  for  great  emotion 
When  seeing  her  in  prayer  or  reverent  thought. 
But  now  I  come  to  something  more  concrete: 
The  day  before  the  major  came  we  lunched 
Where  we  could  see  the  Mediterranean, 
The  clubs,  hotels  and  villas.     There  she  sat 
All  dressed  in  white,  a  knitted  jacket  of  silk 
Matching  the  leaves  upon  the  trees,  and  looked 
As  fashionable  as  the  rest.     The  waiter  came. 
She  did  not  take  the  card  nor  order  from  it, 
Was  nonchalant,  familiar,  said  at  last: 
"  We  want  some  Epernay.     You  have  it  doubtless." 
The  waiter  bowed.     I  looked  at  Elenor, 
That  was  the  character  of  revealing  things 
[299] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

I  saw  from  day  to  day.     For  truth  to  tell 

This  Epernay  might  well  have  been  charged  water 

For  all  I  knew.     I  asked  her,  and  she  said : 

<(  Delicious  wine,  not  strong."     And  so  we  lunched, 

And  the  music  stormed,   and  lunchers  gabbled,  smoked, 

And  dandies  ogled.     And  this  Epernay 

Worked  in  our  blood  and  Elenor  rattled  on. 

And  she  was  flinging  eyes  from  right  to  =lef  t 

And  moving  rhythmically  from  hip  to  hip, 

And  with  a  finger  beating  out  the  time. 

Somehow  our  hands  touched,   then  she  closed  her  eyes, 

Her  body  shook  a  little  and  grew  limp. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "     Then  she  raised  her  eyes 

And  looked  me  through  an  instant.     What,  my  dear, 

You  won't  hear  any  more?     Oh,  very  well, 

That's  all,  there  is  no  more. 

But    after   while 

When  things  got  quieter,  the  lunchers  thinned, 
The  music  ended,  and  the  wine  grown  tame 
Within  our  veins,  she  told  me  on  a  time 
Some  years  before  she  was  confirmed,  and  thought 
She'd  take  the  veil,  and  for  two  years  or  more 
Was  all  absorbed  in  pious  thoughts  and  works. 
"  But  how  we  learn  and  change,"  she  added  then, 
"  In  training  we  see  bodies,  learn  to  know 
How  thirst  and  hunger,  needs  of  body  cry 
For  daily  care,  become  materialists, 
Unmoralists  a  little  in  the  sense 
That  any  book,  or  theories  of  the  soul 

[300] 


AT  NICE 

Should  tie  the  body  from  its  natural  needs. 
Though  I  accept  the  faith,  no  less  than  ever, 
That  God  is  and  the  Savior  is  and  spirit 
Is  no  less  real  than  body,  has  its  needs, 
Separate  or  through  the  body." 


Oh,  that  girl! 

She  made  me  guess  and  wonder.     But  next  day 
I  had  a  fresh  surprise,  the  major  came 
And  she  was  changed  completely.     I  forgot, 
I  must  tell  you  what  happened  after  lunch. 
We  rose  and  she  grew  impish,  stood  and  laughed 
As  if  the  secret  of  the  laugh  was  hers 
Beyond  the  concrete  matter  of  the  laugh. 
She  said,  "  I'll  show  you  something  beautiful." 
We  started  out  to  see  it,  walked  the  road 
Around  the  foot  of  Castle  Hill.     You  know 
The  wind  blows  gustily  at  Nice;  and  so 
All  of  a  sudden  went  my  hat,  way  up, 
Far  off,  and  instantly  such  laughter  rose, 
And  boisterous  shouts  that  made  me  think  at  once 
I  had  been  tricked,  somehow.     It  is  this  way: 
The  gamins  loiter  there  to  watch  the  victims 
Who  lose  their  hats.     And  Elenor  sat  down, 
And  laughed  until  she  cried.     I  do  not  know, 
Perhaps  I  was  not  amorous  enough 
At  luncheon  and  she  pranked  me  for  revenge. 
Well,  then  the  major  came,  he  took  my  place. 
I  was  the  third  one  in  the  party  now, 
[30i] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

But  saw  them  every  day.     What  did  we  do? 

No  Monte  Carlo  now,  nor  ordering 

Without  the  card,  she  was  completely  changed, 

Demure  again,  all  words  of  lovely  things: 

The  war  had  changed  the  world,  had  lifted  up 

The  spirit  of  man  to  visions,  and  the  major 

Adored  her,  drank  it  in.     And  we  explored 

Limpia  and  the  Old  Town,  looked  aloft. 

At  Mont  Cau  d'Aspremont,  picked  hellebore, 

And  orchids  in  the  gorges,  saw  St.  Pons, 

The  Valley  of  Hepaticas,  sunned  ourselves 

Within  the  Jardin  Public,  where  the  children 

Play  riotously;  and  Elenor  would  draw 

A  straying  child  to  her  and  say:     "  You  darling." 

I  saw  her  do  this  once  and  dry  her  eyes 

And  to  the  major  say:  "  They  are  so  lovely, 

I  had  to  give  up  teaching  school,  the  children 

Stirred  my  emotions  till  I  could  not  bear 

To  be  among  them."     And  to  make  an  end, 

I  spent  the  parts  of  three  days  with  these  two. 

And  on  the  last  day  we  went  to  the  summit 

Of  the  Corinche  Road,  and  saw  the  sea  and  Europe 

Spread  out  before  us  —  oh,  you  cannot  know 

The  beauty  of  it,  dear,  until  you  see  it. 

And  Elenor  sat  down  as  in  a  trance, 

And  looked  and  did  not  speak  for  minutes.     Then 

She  said :     "  How  pure  a  place  this  is  —  it's  nature, 

And  I  can  worship  here,  this  makes  you  hate 

The  cafes  and  the  pleasures  of  the  town." 

What  was  this  woman,  dear,  what  was  her  soul? 

[302] 


AT  NICE 

Or  was  she  half  and  half?     Oh,  after  all, 
I  am  a  hostile  mixture,  so  are  you. 

And  so  I  drifted  out,  and  only  stayed 
A  day  or  two  beyond  that  afternoon. 
I  took  a  last  walk  on  the  Promenade; 
At  last  saw  just  ahead  of  me  these  two, 
His  arm  was  fast  in  hers,  they  sauntered  on 
As  if  in  serious  talk.     As  I  came  up, 
I  greeted  them  and  said  good-bye  again. 

Where  is  the  major?     Did  the  major  steal 
The  heart  of  Elenor  Murray,  speed  her  death? 
They  could  have  married.     Why  did  she  return? 
Or  did  the  major  follow  her  ?     Well,  dear, 
Here  is  the  story,  truthful  to  a  fault. 
My  soul  is  yours,  I  kept  it  true  to  you. 
Hear  how  the  waters  roar  upon  the  sand ! 
I  close  my  eyes  and  almost  can  believe 
We  are  together  on  the  Corniche  Road. 


Well,  it  may  never  be  that  Merival 
Heard  from  Bernard  of  Elenor  at  Nice, 
Although  he  knew  it  sometime,  knew  as  well 
Her  service  in  the  war  had  nerved  the  men 
And  by  that  much  had  put  the  Germans  down. 
America  at  the  fateful  moment  lent 
Her  strength  to  bring  the  war's  end.     Elenor 
Was  one  of  many  to  cross  seas  and  bring 
Life  strength  against  the  emperor,  once  secure, 

[303] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  throned  in  power  against  such  phagocytes 
As  Elenor  Murray,   Bernard,  even  kings. 
And  sawing  wood  at  Amerongen  all 
He  thought  of  was  of  brains  and  monstrous  hearts 
Which  sent  the  phagocytes  from  America, 
England  and  France  to  eat  him  up  at  last. 

One  day  an  American  soldier,  so  'tis  said 

Someone  told  Merival,  was  walking  near 

The  house  at  Amerongen,  saw  a  man 

With  drooped  mustache  and  whitened  beard  approach, 

Two  mastiffs  walked  beside  him.     As  he  passed 

Unrecognized,  the  soldier  to  a  mate 

Spoke  up  and  said:     "What  hellish  dogs  are  those? 

Like  Bismarck  used  to  have ;  I  saw  a  picture 

Of  Bismarck  with  his  dogs."     The  drooped  mustache 

Turned  nervously  and  took  the  soldiers  in, 

Then  strode  ahead.     The  emperor  was  stunned 

To  hear  an  American  soldier  use  a  knife 

As  sharp  as  that. 

But  Elenor  at  Nice 

Walked  with  the  major  as  Bernard  has  told. 
And  this  is  wrinkled  water,  dark  and  far 
From  Merival,  unknown  to  him.     He  hears, 
And  this  alone,  she  went  from  Nice  to  Florence, 
Was  ill  there  in  a  convent,  we  shall  see. 
This  is  the  tale  that  Irma  Leese  related 
To  Coroner  Merival  in  a  leisure  hour: 

[304] 


THE  MAJOR  AND  ELENOR.  MURRAY 


THE  MAJOR  AND  ELENOR  MURRAY  AT 
NICE 

Elenor  Murray  and  Petain,  the  major, 
The  Promenade  des  Anglais  walked  at  Nice. 
A  cloud  was  over  him,  and  in  her  heart 
A  growing  grief. 

He  knew  her  at  the  hospital, 
First  saw  her  face  among  a  little  group 
Of  faces  at  a  grave  when  rain  was  falling, 
The  burial  of  a  nurse,  when  Elenor's  face 
Was  bathed   in  tears  and  strained  with  agony. 
And  after  that  he  saw  her  in  the  wards; 
Heard  soldiers,  whom  she  nursed,  say  as  she  passed, 
Dear  little  soul,  sweet  soul,  or  take  her  hand 
In  gratitude  and  kiss  it. 

But  as  a  stream 

Flows  with  clear  water  even  with  the  filth 
Of  scum,  debris  that  drifts  beside  the  current 
Of  crystal  water,  nor  corrupts  it,  keeps 
Its  poisoned,  heavier  medium  apart, 
So  at  the  hospital  where  the  nurses'  hands 
Poured  sacrifice,  heroic  love,  the  filth 
Of  envy,  anger,  malice,  plots,  intrigue 
Kept  pace  with  pure  devotion,  noble  work 
For  suffering  and  the  cause. 

[305] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  major  helped 

To  free  the  rules  for  Elenor  Murray  so 
She  might  recuperate  at  Nice,  and  said: 
"  Go  and  await  me,  I  shall  join  you  there. 
For  in  my  trouble  I  must  have  a  friend, 
A  woman  to  assuage  me,  give  me  light, 
And  ever  since  I  saw  you  by  that  grave, 
And  saw  you  cross  yourself,  and  bow  your  head 
And  watched  your  services  along  the  wards 
Among  the  sick  and  dying,  I  have  felt 
The  soul  of  you,  its  human  tenderness, 
Its  prodigal  power  of  giving,  pouring  forth 
Itself  for  others.     And  you  seem  a  soul 
Where  nothing  of  our  human  frailty 
Has  come  to  dim  the  flame  that  burns  in  you, 
You  are  all  light,  I  think." 

And  Elenor  Murray 

Looked  down  and  said:     "  There  is  no  soul  like  that. 
This  hospital,  the  war  itself,  reflects 
The  good  and  bad  together  of  our  souls. 
You  are  a  boy  —  oh  such  a  boy  to  see 
All  .good  in  me." 

And  Major  Petain  said: 
"  At  least  you  have  not  found  dishonor  here 
As  I  have  found  it,  for  a  lust  of  flesh 
A  weakness  and  a  trespass." 

[306] 


THE  MAJOR  AND  ELENOR  MURRAY 

This  was  after 

The  hospital  was  noisy  with  the  talk 
Of  Major  Petain  and  his  shame,  the  hand 
Of  discipline  lay  on  him. 

Elenor  Murray 

Looked  steadily  in  his  eyes,  but  only  said: 
"  We  mortals  know  each  other  but  a  little, 
Nor  guess  each  other's  secrets."     And  she  glanced 
A  moment  at  the  tragedy  that  had  come 
To  her  at  Paris  on  her  furlough  there, 
And  of  its  train  of  sorrows,  even  now 
Her  broken  health  and  failure  in  the  work 
As  consequence  to  that,  and  how  it  brought 
The  breaking  of  her  passionate  will  and  dream 
To  serve  and  not  to  fail  —  she  glanced  at  this 
A  moment  as  she  faced  him,  looked  at  him. 
Then  as  she  turned  away:  "  There  is  one  thing 
That  I  must  tell  you,  it  is  fitting  now, 
I  love  and  am  beloved.     But  if  you  come 
To  Nice  and  I  can  help  you,  come,  if  talk 
And  any  poor  advice  of  mine  can  help." 

So  Major  Petain,  Elenor  Murray  walked 
The  Promenade  at  Nice,  arm  fast  in  arm. 
And  Major  Petain  to  relieve  his  heart 
Told  all  the  tragedy  that  had  come  to  him: 

"  Duty  to  France  was  first  with  me  where  love 
Was  paramount  with  you,  if  I  divine 

[307] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Your  heart,  America's,  at  least  a  love 

Unmixed  of  other  feelings  as  may  be. 

What  could  you  find  here,  if  you  seek  no  husband, 

Even  in  seeing  France  so  partially? 

What  in  adventure,  lures  to  bring  you  here, 

Where  peril,  labor  are?     You  either  came 

To  expiate  your  soul,  or  as  you  say, 

To  make  more  worthy  of  this  man  beloved 

Back  in  America  your  love  for  him. 

Dear  idealist,  I  give  my  faith  to  you, 

And  all  your  words.     But  as  I  said  'twas  duty, 

Then  dreams  of  freedom,  Europe's  chains  struck  off, 

The  menace  of  the  German  crushed  to  earth 

That  fired  me  as  a  soldier,  trained  to  go 

When  France  should  need  me.     So  it  is  you  saw 

France  go  about  this  business  calm  and  stern, 

And  patient  for  the  prize,  or  if  'twere  lost 

Then  brave  to  meet  the  future  as  France  met 

The  arduous  years  that  followed  Metz,  Sedan." 

"  But  had  I  been  American  to  the  core, 
Would   I  have  put  the  sweet  temptation  by? 
However  flamed  with  zeal  had  I  said  no 
When  lips  like  hers  were  offered?     Oh,  you  see 
Whatever  sun-light  gilds  the  mountain  tops 
Rich  grass  grows  in  the  valleys,  herds  will  feed, 
Though  rising  suns  put  glories  on  the  heights. 
And  herds  will  run  and  stumble  over  rocks, 
Break  fences  and  encounter  beasts  of  prey 
To  get  the  grass  that's  sweetest." 
[308] 


THE  MAJOR  AND  ELENOR  MURRAY 

"  To  begin 

I  met  her  there  in  Paris.     In  a  trice 
We  loved  each  other,  wrote,  made  vows,  she  pledged 
The  consummation.     There  was  danger  here, 
Great  danger,  as  you  know,  for  her  and  me. 
And  yet  it  never  stopped  us,  gave  us  fear. 
And  then  I  schemed  and  got  her  through  the  lines, 
Took  all  the  chances." 

"  Danger  was  not  all: 

There  was  my  knowledge  of  her  husband's  love, 
His  life  immaculate,  his  daily  letters. 
He  put  by  woman  chances  that  arose 
With  saying,  I  am  married,  am  beloved, 
I  love  my  wife,  all  said  so  earnestly 
We  could  not  joke  him,  though  behind  his  back 
Some  said:     He  trusts  her,  but  he'd  better  watch; 
At  least  no  sense  of  passing  good  things  by. 
I  sat  with  him  at  mess,  I  saw  him  read 
The  letters  that  she  wrote  him,  face  of  light 
Devouring  eyes.     The  others  rallied  him; 
But  I  was  like  a  man  who  knows  a  plot 
To  take  another's  life,  but  keeps  the  secret, 
Eats  with  the  victim,  does  not  warn  him,  makes 
Himself  thereby  a  party  to  the  plot. 
Or  like  a  man  who  knows  a  fellow  man 
Has  some  insidious  disease  beginning, 
And  hears  him  speak  with  unconcern  of  it, 
And  does  not  tell  him  what  to  do,  you  know, 
And  let  him  go  to  death.     And  just  for  her, 

[309] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  rapture  of  a  secret  love  I  choked 
All  risings  of  an  honest  manhood,  mercy, 
Honor  with  self  and  him.     Oh,  well  you  know 
The  isolation,  hunger  of  us  soldiers, 
I  only  need  to  hint  of  these.     But  now 
I  see  these  well  endured  for  sake  of  peace 
And  quiet  memory." 

"  For  here  we  stood 

Just  'round  the  corner  in  that  long  arcade 
That  runs  between  our  building,  next  to  yours. 
And  this  is  what  I  hear  —  the  husband's  voice, 
Which  well  I  knew,  the  officer's  in  command: 
'  Why  have  you  brought  your  wife  here?  '  asked  the  officer. 
'  Pardon,  I  have  not  done  so,'  said  the  husband. 
'  You're  adding  falsehood  to  the  offense ;  you  know 
The  rules  forbid  your  wife  to  pass  the  lines.' 
'  Pardon,  I  have  not  brought  her,'  he  exclaimed 
In  passionate  earnestness. 

"  Well,  there  we  stood. 

My  sweetheart,  but  his  wife,  was  turned  to  snow, 
As  white  and  cold.     I  got  in  readiness 
To  kill  the  husband.     How  could  we  escape  ? 
I  thought  the  husband  had  been  sent  away  ; 
Her  coming  had  been  timed  with  his  departure, 
Arriving  afterward,  and  we  had  failed. 
But  as  for  that,  before  our  feet  could  stir, 
The  officer  said,  '  Come  now,  I'll  prove  your  lie,' 
And  in  a  twinkling,  taking  a  dozen  steps 

[310] 


THE  MAJOR  AND  ELENOR  MURRAY 

They  turned  into  the  arcade,  there  they  were, 
The  officer  was  shaking  him  and  saying, 
'You  lie!     You  lie!' 


"  All  happened  in  a  moment, 
The  humbled,  ruined  fellow  saw  the  truth, 
And  blew  his  brains  out  on  the  very  spot! 
And  made  a  wonder,  gossip  for  you  girls  — 
And  here  I  am." 

So  Major  Petain  finished. 

Then  Elenor  Murray  said:  "  Let's  watch  the  sea." 
And  as  they  sat  in  silence,  as  he  turned 
To  look  upon  her  face,  he  saw  the  tears, 
Hanging  like  dew  drops  on  her  lashes,  drip 
And  course  her  cheeks.     "  My  friend,  you  weep  for  me," 
The  major  said  at  last,  "  my  gratitude 
For  tears  like  these."     "  I  weep,"  said  Elenor  Murray, 
"  For  you,  but  for  myself.     What  can  I  say? 
Nothing,  my  friend,  your  soul  must  find  its  way. 
Only  this  word:   I'll  go  to  mass  with  you, 
I'll  sit  beside  you,  pray  with  you,  for  you, 
And  do  you  pray  for  me." 

And  then  she  paused. 

The  long  wash  of  the  sea  filled  in  the  silence. 
And  then  she  said  again,  "  I'll  go  with  you, 
Where  we  may  pray,  each  for  the  other  pray. 
I  have  a  sorrow,  too,  as  deep  as  yours." 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 


THE  CONVENT 

Elenor  Murray  stole  away  from  Nice 
Before  her  furlough  ended,  tense  to  see 
Something  of  Italy,  and  planned  to  go 
To  Genoa,  explore  the  ancient  town 
Of  Christopher  Columbus,  if  she  might" 
Elude  the  regulation,  as  she  did, 
In  leaving  Nice  for  Italy.     But  for  her 
Always  the  dream,  and  always  the  defeat 
Of  what  she  dreamed. 

She  found  herself  in  Florence 
And  saw  the  city.     But  the  weariness 
Of  labor  and  her  illness  came  again 
At  intervals,  and  on  such  days  she  lay 
And  heard  the  hours  toll,  wished  for  death  and  wept, 
Being  alone  and   sorrowful. 

On  a  morning 

She  rose  and  looked  for  galleries,  came  at  last 
Into  the  Via  Gino  Capponi 
And  saw  a  little  church  and  entered  in, 
And  saw  amid  the  darkness  of  the  church 
A  woman  kneeling,  knelt  beside  the  woman, 
And  put  her  hand  upon  the  woman's  forehead 
To  find  that  it  was  wrinkled,  strange  to  say 
A  scar  upon  the  forehead,  like  a  cross.  .  .  . 
Elenor  Murray  rose  and  walked  away, 


THE  CONVENT 

Sobs  gathering  in  her  throat,  her  body  weak, 
And  reeled  against  the  wall,  for  so  it  seemed, 
Against  which  hung  thick  curtains,  velvet,  red, 
A  little  grimed  and  worn.     And  as  she  leaned 
Against  the  curtains,  clung  to  them,  she  felt 
A  giving,  parted  them,  and  found  a  door, 
Pushed  on  the  door  which  yielded,  opened  it 
And  saw  a  yard  before  her. 

It  was  walled. 

A  garden  of  old  urns  and  ancient  growths, 
Some  flowering  plants  around  the  wall. 

Before  her 

And  in  the  garden's  center  stood  a  statue, 
With  outstretched  arms,  the  Virgin  without  the  child. 
And  suddenly  on  Elenor  Murray  came 
Great  sorrow  like  a  madness,  seeing  there 
The  pitying  Virgin,  stretching  arms  to  her. 
And  so  she  ran  along  the  pebbly  walk, 
Fell  fainting  at  the  Virgin's  feet  and  lay 
Unconscious  in  the  garden. 

When  she  woke 

Two  nuns  were  standing  by,  and  one  was  dressed 
In  purest  white,  and  held  within  her  hands 
A  tray  of  gold,  and  on  the  tray  of  gold 
There  was  a  glass  of  wine,  and  in  a  cup 
Some  broth  of  beef,  and  on  a  plate  of  gold 
A  wafer. 

[313] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  the  other  nun  was  dressed 
In  purest  white,  but  over  her  shoulders  lay 
A  cape  of  blue,  blue  as  the  sky  of  Florence 
Above  the  garden  wall. 

Then  as  she  saw 

The  nuns  before  her,  in  the  interval 
Of  gathering  thought,  re-limning  life  again 
From  wonder  if  she  had  not  died,  and  these 
Were  guides  or  ministrants  of  another  world, 
The  nun  with  cape  of  blue  to  Elenor 
Said:  "  Drink  this  wine,  this  broth;  "  and  Elenor 
Drank  and  arose,  being  lifted  up  by  them, 
And  taken  through  the  convent  door  and  given 
A  little  room  as  white  and  clean  as  light, 
And  a  bed  of  snowy  linen. 

Then  they  said: 

"  This  is  the  Convent  where  we  send  up  prayers, 
Prayers  for  the  souls  who  do  not  pray  for  self  - 
Rest,  child,  and  be  at  peace ;  and  if  there  be 
Friends  you  would  tell  that  you  are  here,  then  we 
Will  send  the  word  for  you,  sleep  now  and  rest." 
And  listening  to  their  voices  Elenor  slept. 
And  when  she  woke  a  nurse  was  at  her  side, 
And  food  was  served  her,  broths  and  fruit.     Each  day 
A  doctor  came  to  tell  her  all  was  well, 
And  health  would  soon  return. 

So  for  a  month 

Elenor  Murray  lay  and  heard  the  bells, 
[3H] 


THE  CONVENT 

And  breathed  the  fragrance  of  the  flowering  city 

That  floated  through  her  window,  in  the  stillness 

Of  the  convent  dreamed,  and  said  to  self :  This  place 

Is  good  to  die  in,  who  is  there  to  tell 

That  I  am  here?     There  was  no  one.     To  them 

She  gave  her  name,  but  said :     "  Till  I  am  well 

Let  me  remain,  and  if  I  die,  some  place 

Must  be  for  me  for  burial,  put  me  there. 

And  if  I  live  to  go  again  to  France 

And  join  my  unit,  let  me  have  a  writing 

That  I  did  not  desert,  was  stricken  here 

And  could  not  leave.     For  while  I  stole  away 

From  Nice  to  get  a  glimpse  of  Italy, 

I  might  have  done  so  in  my  furlough  time, 

And  not  stayed  over  it."     And  to  Elenor 

The  nuns  said :  "  We  will  help  you,  but  for  now 

Rest  and  put  by  anxieties." 

On  a  day 

Elenor  Murray  made  confessional. 

And  to  the  nuns  told  bit  by  bit  her  life, 

Her  childhood,  schooling,  travels,  work  in  the  war, 

What  fate  had  followed  her,  what  sufferings. 

And  Sister  Mary,  she  who  saw  her  first, 

And  held  the  tray  of  gold  with  wine  and  broth, 

Sat  often  with  her,  read  to  her,  and  said: 

"  Letters  will  go  ahead  of  you  to  clear 

Your  absence  over  time  —  be  not  afraid, 

All  will  be  well." 

[315] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  so  when  Elenor  Murray 
Arose  to  leave  she  found  all  things  prepared : 
A  cab  to  take  her  to  the  train,  compartments 
Reserved  for  her  from  place  to  place,  her  fare 
And  tickets  paid  for,  till  at  last  she  came 
To  Brest  and  joined  her  unit,  in  three  days 
Looked  at  the  rolling  waters  as  the  ship 
Drove  to  America  —  such  a  coming  home ! ! 
To  what  and  whom? 


Loveridge  Chase  returned  and  brought  the  letters 
To  Coroner  Merival  from  New  York.     That  day 
The  chemical  analysis  was  finished,  showed 
No  ricin  and  no  poison.     Elenor  Murray 
Died  how?     What  were  the  circumstances?     Then 
When  Coroner  Merival  broke  the  seals  of  wax, 
And  cut  the  twine  that  bound  the  package,  found 
The  man  was  Barrett  Bays  who  wrote  the  letters  — 
There  were  a  hundred  —  then  he  cast  about 
To  lay  his  hands  on  Barrett  Bays,  and  found 
That  Barrett  Bays  lived  in  Chicago,  taught, 
Was  a  professor,  aged  some  forty  years. 
Why  did  this  Barrett  Bays  emerge  not,  speak, 
Come  forward?     Was  it  simply  to  conceal 
A  passion  written  in  these  letters  here 
For  his  sake  or  his  wife's?     Or  was  it  guilt 
For  some  complicity  in  Elenor's  death? 
And  on  this  day  the  coroner  had  a  letter 
From    Margery    Camp    which    said:  "  Where's    Barrett 
Bays? 

[3i6] 


THE  CONVENT 

Why  have  you  not  arrested  him  ?     He  knows 
Something,  perhaps  about  the  death  of  Elenor." 
So  Coroner  Merival  sent  process  forth 
To  bring  in  Barrett  Bays,  non  est  inventus. 
He  had  not  visited  his  place  of  teaching, 
Been  seen  in  haunts  accustomed  for  some  days  — 
Not  since  the  death  of  Elenor  Murray,  none 
Knew  where  to  find  him,  and  none  seemed  to  know 
What  lay  between  this  man  and  Elenor  Murray. 
This  was  the  more  suspicious.     Then  the  Times 
Made  headlines  of  the  letters,  published  some 
Wherein  this  Barrett  Bays  had  written  Elenor: 
"  You  are  my  hope  in  life,  my  morning  star, 
My  love  at  last,  my  all."     From  coast  to  coast 
The  word  was  flashed  about  this  Barrett  Bays; 
And  Mrs.  Bays  at  Martha's  Vineyard  read, 
Turned  up  her  nose,  continued  on  the  round 
Of  gaieties,  but  to  a  chum  relieved 
Her  loathing  with  these  words:  "Another  woman, 
He's  soiled  himself  at  last." 

And    Barrett    Bays, 

Who  roughed  it  in  the  Adirondacks,  hoped 
The  inquest's  end  would  leave  him  undisclosed 
In  Elenor  Murray's  life,  though  wracked  with  fear 
About  the  letters  in  the  vault,  some  day 
To  be  unearthed,  or  taken,  it  might  be, 
By   Margery   Camp   for   uses  sinister  — 
He  reading  that  the  letters  had  been  given 
To  Coroner  Merival,  and  seeing  his  name 

[317] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Printed  in  every  sheet,  saw  no  escape 

In  any  nook  of  earth,  returned  and  walked 

In  Merival's  office:  trembling,  white  as  snow. 

So  Barrett  Bays  was  sworn,  before  the  jury 

Sat  and  replied  to  questions,  said  he  knew 

Elenor  Murray  in  the  fall  before 

She  went  to  France,  saw  much  of  her  for  weeks; 

Had  written  her  these  letters  before  she  left. 

Had  followed  her  in  the  war,  and  gone  to  France, 

Had  seen  her  for  some  days  in  Paris  when 

She  had  a  furlough.     Had  come  back  and  parted 

With  Elenor  Murray,  broken  with  her,  found 

A  cause  for  crushing  out  his  love  for  her. 

Came  back  to  win  forgetfulness,  had  written 

No  word  to  her  since  leaving  Paris  —  let 

Her  letters  lie  unanswered;  brought  her  letters, 

And  gave  them  to  the  coroner.     Then  he  told 

Of  the  day  before  her  death,  and  how  she  came 

By  motor  to  Chicago  with  her  aunt, 

Named  Irma  Leese,  and  telephoned  him,  begged 

An  hour  for  talk.     "  Come  meet  me  by  the  river," 

She  had  said.     And  so  went  to  meet  her.     Then  he  told 

Why  he  relented,  after  he  had  left  her 

In  Paris  with  no  word  beside  this  one: 

"  This  is  the  end."     Now  he  was  curious 

To  know  what  she  would  say,  what  could  be  said 

Beyond  what  she  had  written  —  so  he  went 

Out  of  a  curious  but  hardened  heart. 

[318] 


BARRETT  BAYS 


BARRETT  BAYS 

"  I  was  walking  by  the  river,"  Barrett  said, 

"  When  she  arrived.     I  took  her  hand,  no  kiss, 

A  silence  for  some  minutes  as  we  walked. 

Then  we  began  to  take  up  point  by  point, 

For  she  was  concentrated  on  the  hope 

Of  clearing  up  all  doubtful  things  that  we 

Might  start  anew,  clear  visioned,  perfect  friends, 

More  perfect  for  mistakes  and  clouds.     Her  will 

Was  passionate  beyond  all  other  wills, 

And  when  she  set  her  mind  upon  a  course 

She  could  not  be  diverted,  or  if  so, 

Her  failure  kept  her  brooding.     What  with  me 

She  wanted  after  what  had  stunned  my  faith 

I  knew  not,  save  she  loved  me.     For  in  truth 

I  have  no  money,  and  no  prospects  either 

To  tempt  cupidity." 

"  Well,  first  we  talked  — 
You  must  be  patient  with  me,  gentlemen, 
You  see  my  nerves  —  they're  weakened  —  but  I'll  try 
To  tell  you  all  —  well  then  —  a  glass  of  water  — 
At  first  we  talked  but  trifles.     Silences 
Came  on  us  like  great  calms  between  the  stir 
Of  ineffectual  breezes,  like  this  day 
In  August  growing  sultry  as  the  sun 
Rose  upward.     She  was  striving  to  break  down 
The  hard  corrosion  of  my  thought,  and  I 

[319] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Could  not  surrender.     Till  at  last,  I  said  : 
'  That  day  in  Paris  when  you  stood  revealed 
Can  never  be  forgotten.     Once  I  killed 
A  love  with  hatred  for  a  woman  who 
Betrayed  me,  as  you  did.     And  you  can  kill 
A  love  with  hatred  but  you  kill  your  soul 
While  killing  love.     And  so  with  you  I  kept 
All  hatred  from  my  heart,  but  cannot  keep 
A  poisonous  doubt  of  you  from  blood  and  brain.'  . 
I  learned  in  Paris,   (to  be  clear  on  this), 
That  after  she  had  given  herself  to  me 
She  fell  back  in  the  arms  of  Gregory  Wenner. 
And  here  as  we  were  walking  I  revealed 
My  agony,  my  anger,  emptied  out 
My  heart  of  all  its  bitterness.     At  last 
When  she  protested  it  was  natural 
For  her  to  do  what  she  had  done,  the  act 
As   natural   as   breathing,   taking   food, 
Not  signifying  faithlessness  nor  love  — 
Though  she  admitted  had  she  loved  me  then 
She  had  not  done  so  —  I  grew  tense  with  rage, 
A  serpent  which  grows  stiff  and  rears  its  head 
To  strike  its  enemy  was  what  I  seemed 
To  myself  then,  and  so  I  said  to  her 
In  voice  controlled  and  low,  but  deadly  clear, 
'  What  are  you  but  a  whore  —  you  are  a  whore! ' 
Murderous  words  no  doubt,  but  do  you  hear 
She  justified  herself  with  Gregory  Wenner; 
Yes,  justified  herself  when  she  had  written 
And  asked  forgiveness  —  yes,  brought  me  out 
[320] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

To  meet  her  by  the  river.     And  for  what? 
I  said  you  whore,  she  shook  from  head  to  heels, 
And  toppled,  but  I  caught  her  in  my  arms, 
And  held  her  up,  she  paled,  head  rolled  around, 
Her  eyes  set,  mouth  fell  open,  all  at  once 
I  saw  that  she  was  dead,  or  syncope 
Profound  had  come  upon  her.     Elenor, 
What  is  the  matter?     Love  came  back  to  me, 
Love  there  with  Death.     I  laid  her  on  the  ground. 
I  found  her  dead. 

"  If  I  had  any  thought 
There  in  that  awful  moment,  it  was  this: 
To  run  away,  escape,  could  I  maintain 
An  innocent  presence  there,  be  clear  of  fault? 
And  if  I  had  that  thought,  as  I  believe, 
I  had  no  other;  all  my  mind's  a  blank 
Until  I  find  myself  at  one  o'clock 
Disrobing  in  my  room,  too  full  of  drink, 
And  trying  to  remember. 

"  With  the  morning 

I  lay  in  bed  and  thought:  Did  Irma  Leese 
Know  anything  of  me,  or  did  she  know 
That  Elenor  went  out  to  meet  a  man? 
And  if  she  did  not  know,  who  could  disclose 
That  I  was  with  her?     No  one  saw  us  there. 
Could  I  not  wait  from  day  to  day  and  see 
What  turn  the  news  wrould  take?     For  at  the  last 
I  did  not  kill  her.     If  the  inquest  showed 

[321] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Her  death  was  natural,  as  it  was,  for  all 
Of  me,  why  then  my  secret  might  be  hidden 
In  Elenor  Murray's  grave.     And  if  they  found 
That  I  was  with  her,  brought  me  in  the  court, 
I  could  make  clear  my  innocence.     And  thus 
I  watched  the  papers,  gambled  with  the  chance 
Of  never  being  known  in  this  affair. 
Does  this  sound  like  a  coward?     Put  yourself 
In  my  place  in  that  horror.     Think  of  me 
With  all  these  psychic  shell  shocks  —  first  the  war, 
Its  great  emotions,  then  this  Elenor." 


And  thus  he  spoke  and  twisted  hands,  and  twitched, 

And  ended  suddenly.     Then  David  Borrow, 

And  Winthrop  Marion  with  the  coroner 

Shot  questions  at  him  till  he  woke,  regained 

A  memory,  concentration:  Who  are  you? 

What  was  your  youth?     Your   love  life?     What  your 

wife? 

Where  did  you  meet  this  Elenor  at  the  first? 
Why  did  you  go  to  France  ?     In  Paris  what 
Happened  to  break  your  balance?     Tell  us  all. 
For  as  they  eyed  him,  he  looked  down,  away, 
Stirred  restless  in  the  chair.     And  was  it  truth 
He  told  of  meeting  Elenor,  her  death? 
Guilt  like  a  guise  was  on  his  face.     And  one  — 
This  Isaac  Newfeldt,  juryman,  whispered,  "  Look, 
That  man  is  guilty,  let  us  fly  the  questions 
Like  arrows  at  him  till  we  bring  him  down." 
[322] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

And  as  they  flew  the  arrows  he  came  to 
And  spoke  as  follows :  — 

"  First,  I  am  a  heart 

That  from  my  youth  has  sought  for  love  and  hungered. 
And  Elenor  Murray's  heart  had  hungered  too, 
Which  drew  our  hearts  together,  made  our  love 
As  it  were  mystical,  more  real.     I  was 
A  boy  who  sought  for  beauty,  hope  and  faith 
In  woman's  love ;  at  fourteen  met  a  girl 
Who  carried  me  to  ecstasy  till  I  walked 
In  dreamland,  stepping  clouds.     She  loved  me  too. 
I  could  not  cure  my  heart,  have  always  felt 
A  dull  pain  for  that  girl.     She  died,  you  know. 
I  found  another,  rather  made  myself 
Discover  my  ideal  in  her,  until 
My  heart  was  sure  she  was  the  one.     And  then 
I  woke  up  from  this  trance,  went  to  another 
Still  searching;  always  searching,  reaching  now 
An  early  cynicism,  how  to  play  with  hearts, 
Extract  their  beauty,  pass  to  someone  else. 
I  was  a  little  tired  now,  seemed  to  know 
There  is  no  wonder  woman,  just  a  woman 
Somewhere  to  be  a  wife.     And  then  I  met 
The  woman  whom  I  married,  thought  to 'solve 
My  problem  with  the  average  things  of  life; 
The  satisfaction  of  insistent  sex, 
A  home,  a  regular  program,  turn  to  work, 
Forget  the  dream,  the  quest.     What  did  I  find  ? 
A  woman  who  exhausted  me  and  bored  me, 

[323] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Stirred  never  a  thought,  a  fancy,  brought  no  friends, 
No  pleasures  or  diversions,  took  from  me 
All  that  I  had  to  give  of  mind  and  heart, 
Purse,  or  what  not.     And  she  was  barren  too, 
And  restless;  by  that  restlessness  relieved 
The  boredom  of  our  life;  it  took  her  off 
In  travels  here  and  there.     And  I  was  glad 
To  have  her  absent,  but  it  still  is  true 
There  is  a  hell  in  marriage,  when  it  keeps 
Delights  of  freedom  off,  all  other  women 
Not  willing  to  intrigue,  pass  distantly 
Your  married  man;  but  on  the  other  hand 
What  was  my  marriage  with  a  wife  away 
Six  months  or  more  of  every  year?     And  when 
I  said  to  her,  divorce  me,  she  would  say, 
You  want  your  freedom  to  get  married  —  well, 
The  other  woman  shall  not  have  you,  if 
There  is  another  woman,  as  I  think. 
And  so  the  years  went  by.     I'm  thirty-five 
And  meet  a  woman,  play  light  heartedly, 
She  is  past  thirty,  understands  nor  asks 
A  serious  love.     It's  summer  and  we  jaunt 
About  the  country,  for  my  wife's  away. 
As  usual,  in  the  fall  returns,  and  then 
My  woman  says,  the  holiday  is  over, 
Go  back  to  work,  and  I'll  go  back  to  work. 
I  cannot  give  her  up,  would  still  go  on 
For  this  delight  so  sweet  to  me.     By  will 
I  hold  her,  stir  the  fire  up  to  inflame 
Her  hands  for  me,  make  love  to  her  in  short 
[324] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

And  find  myself  in  love,  beholding  in  her 

All  beauties  and  all  virtues.     Well,  at  first 

What  did  I  care  what  she  had  been  before, 

Whose  mistress,  sweetheart?     Now  I  cared  and  asked 

Fidelity  from  her,  and  this  she  pledged. 

And  so  a  settled  life  seemed  come  to  us, 

We  had  found  happiness.     But  on  a  day 

I  caught  her  in  unfaithfulness.     A  man 

She  knew  before  she  knew  me  crossed  her  path. 

Why  do  they  do  this,  even  while  their  lips 

Are  wet  with  kisses  given  you  ?     I  think 

A  woman  may  be  true  in  marriage,  never 

In  any  free  relationship.     And  then 

I  left  her,  killed  the  love  I  had  with  hate. 

Hate  is  an  energy  with  which  to  save 

A  heart  knocked  over  by  a  blow  like  this. 

To  forgive  this  wrong  is  never  to  forget, 

But  always  to  remember,  with  increasing 

Sorrow  and  dreams  invest  the  ruined  love. 

And  so  I  turned  to  hate,  came  from  the  flames 

As  hard  and  glittering  as  crockery  ware, 

And  went  my  way  with  gallant  gestures,  winning 

An  hour  of  rapture  where  it  came  to  me. 

And  all  the  time  my  wife  was  much  away, 

Yet  left  me  in  this  state  where  I  was  kept 

From  serious  love  if  I  had  found  the  woman. 

A  pterodactyl  in  my  life  and  soul: 

Had  wings,  could  fly,  but  slumbered  in  the  mud. 

Was  neither  bird  nor  beast ;  as  social  being 

Was  neither  bachelor  nor  married  man. 

[325] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  years  went  on  with  work,  day  after  day 
Arising  to  the   task,   night  after   night 
Returning  for  the  rest  with  which  to  rise, 
Forever  following  the  mad  illusion, 
The  dream,  the  expected  friend,  the  great  event 
Which  should  change  life,  and  never  finding  it. 
And  all  the  while  I  see  myself  consumed, 
Sapped  somehow  by  this  wife  and  hating  her; 
Then  fearful  for  myself  for  hating  her, 
Then  melting  into  generosities 
For  hating  her.     And  so  tossed  back  and  forth 
Between  such  passions,  also  never  at  peace 
From  the  dream  of  love,  the  woman  and  the  mate 
I   stagger,  amble,  hurtle  through  the  years, 
And  reach  that  summer  of  two  years  ago 
When  life  began  to  change.     It  was  this  way: 
My  wife  is  home,  for  a  wonder,  and  my  friend, 
Most  sympathetic,  nearest,  comes  to  dine. 
He  casts  his  comprehending  eyes  about, 
Takes  all  things  in.     As  we  go  down  to  town, 
And  afterward  at  luncheon,  when  alone 
He  says  to  me:  she  is  a  worthy  woman, 
Beautiful,  too,  there  is  no  other  woman 
To  make  you  happier,  the  fault  is  yours, 
At  least  in  part,  remove  your  part  of  the  fault, 
To  woo  her,  give  yourself,  find  good  in  her. 
Go  take  a  trip.     For  neither  man  nor  woman 
Yields  everything  till  wooed,  tried  out,  beloved. 
Bring  all  your  energies  to  the  trial  of  her. 
She  will  respond,  unfold,  repay  your  work. 

[326] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

He  won  me  with  his  words.     I  said  to  her, 

Let's  summer  at  Lake  Placid  —  so  we  went. 

I  tried  his  plan,  did  all  I  could,  no  use. 

The  woman  is  not  mine,  was  never  mine, 

Was  meant  for  someone  else.     And  in  despair, 

In  wrath  as  well,  I  left  her  and  came  back 

And  telephoned  a  woman  that  I  knew 

To  dine  with  me.     She  came,  was  glad  and  gay, 

But  as  she  drew  her  gloves  off  let  me  see 

A  solitaire.     What,  you?  I  said  to  her, 

You  leave  me  too?     She  smiled  and  answered  me; 

Marriage  may  be  the  horror  that  you  think, 

And  yet  we  all  must  try  it  once,  and  Charles 

Is  nearest  my  ideal  of  any  man. 

I  have  been  very  ill  since  last  we  met, 

Had  not  survived  except  for  skillful  hands, 

And  Charles  was  good  to  me,  with  heart  and  purse. 

My  illness  took  my  savings.     I  repay 

His  goodness  with  my  hand.     I  love  him  too. 

You  do  not  care  to  lose  me.     As  for  that 

I  know  one  who  will  more  than  take  my  place; 

She  is  the  nurse  who  nursed  me  back  to  health, 

I'll  have  you  meet  her,  I  can  get  her  now. 

She  rose  and  telephoned.     In  half  an  hour 

Elenor  Murray  joined  us,  dined  with  us. 

I  watched  her  as  she  entered,  did  not  see 

A  single  wonder  in  her,  cannot  now 

Remember  how  she  looked,  what  dress  she  wore, 

What  hat  in  point  of  color,  anything. 

After  the  dinner  I  rode  home  with  them, 

[327] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Saw  Elenor  at  luncheon  next  day.     So 
The  intimacy  began." 

"  She  was  alone, 

Unsettled  and  unhappy,  pressed  for  funds. 
She  had,  it  seemed,  nursed  Janet  without  pay 
Till  Charles  made  good  at  last  the  weekly  wage ; 
Since  Janet's  illness  had  no  work  to  do. 
I  was  alone  and  bored,  she  came  to  me 
Almost  at  first  as  woman  never  came 
To  me  before,  so  radiant,  sympathetic, 
Admiring,  so  devoted  with  a  heart 
That  soothed  and  strove  to  help  me.     Strange  to  say 
These  manifests  of  spirit,  ministrations 
Bespoke  the  woman  who  has  found  a  man, 
And  never  knew  a  man  before.     She  seemed 
An  old  maid  jubilant  for  a  man  at  last, 
And  truth  to  tell  I  took  her  rapturous  ways 
With  just  a  little  reticence,  and  shrinking 
Of  spirit  lest  her  hands  would  touch  too  close 
My  spirit  which  misvalued  hers,  withdraw 
Itself  from  hers  with  hidden  smiles  that  she 
Could  find  so  much  in  me.     She  did  not  change, 
Retreat,  draw  in;  advanced,  poured  out,  gave  more 
And  wooed  me,  till  I  feared  if  I  should  take 
Her  body  she  would  follow  me,  grow  mad 
And  shameless  for  her  love." 

"  But  as  for  that 
That  next  day  while  at  luncheon,  frank  and  bold, 

[328] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

I  spoke  right  out  to  her  and  then  she  shook 
From  head  to  foot,  and  made  her  knife  in  hand 
Rattle  the  plate  for  trembling,  turned  as  pale 
As  the  table  linen.     Afterward  as  we  met, 
Having  begun  so,  I  renewed  the  word, 
Half  smiling  to  behold  her  so  perturbed, 
And  serious,   and   gradually   toning   down 
Pursuit  of  her  this  way,  as  I  perceived 
Her  interest  growing  and  her  clinging  ways, 
Her  ardor,  huddling  to  me,  great  devotion ; 
Rapt  words  of  friendship,  offers  of  herself 
For  me  or  mine  for  nothing  were  we  ill 
And  needed  her." 

"  These  currents  flowed  along. 

Hers  plunged  and  sparkled,  mine  was  slow  for  thought. 
A  doubt  of  her,  or  fear,  till  on  a  night 
When  nothing  had  been  said  of  this  before, 
Quite  suddenly  when  nearing  home  she  shrank, 
Involved  herself  in  shrinking  in  the  corner 
Of  the  cab's  seat,  and  spoke  up :     '  Take  me  now, 
I'm  yours  to-night,  will  do  what  you  desire, 
Whatever  you  desire.'     I  acted  then, 
Seemed  overjoyed,  was  puzzled  just  the  same, 
And  almost  feared  her.     As  I  said  before, 
I  feared  she  might  pursue  me,  trouble  me 
After  a  hold  like  this, —  and  yet  I  said : 
*  Go  get  your  satchel,  meet  me  in  an  hour.' 
I  let  her  out,  drove  to  the  club,  and  thought; 
Then  telephoned  her,  business  had  come  up, 

[329] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

I  could  not  meet  her,  but  would  telephone 
To-morrow." 

"  And  to-morrow  when  it  came 
Brought  ridicule  and  taunting  from  myself: 
To  have  pursued  this  woman,  for  two  months, 
And  if  half-heartedly,  you've  made  her  think 
Your  heart  was  wholly  in  it,  now  she  yields, 
Bestows  herself.     You  fly,  you  are  a  fool ; 
A  village  pastor  playing  Don  Juan, 
A  booby  costumed  as  a  gallant  —  pooh ! 
Go  take  your  chance.     I  telephoned  her  then, 
That  night  she  met  me." 

"  Here  was  my  surprise 
All  semblance  of  the  old  maid  fell  away, 
Like  robes  as  she  disrobed.     She  brought  with  her 
Accoutrements  of  slippers,  caps  of  lace, 
And  oriental  perfumes  languorous. 
The  hour  had  been  all  heaven  had  I  sensed, 
Sensed  without  thinking  consciously  a  play, 
Dramatics,  acting,  like  an  old  maid  who 
Resorts  to  tricks  of  dress  she  fancies  wins 
A  gallant  of  experience,  fancies  only 
And  knows  not,  being  fancied  so  appears 
Half  ludicrous." 

"  But  so  our  woe  began. 
That  morning  we  had  breakfast  in  our  room, 
And  I  was  thinking,  in  an  absent  way 
[330] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

Responded  to  her  laughter,  joyous  ways. 

For  I  was  thinking  of  my  life  again, 

Of  love  that  still  eluded  me,  was  bored 

Because  I  sat  there,  did  not  have  the  spirit 

To  share  her  buoyancy  —  or  was  it  such  ? 

Did  she  not  ripple  merriment  to  hide 

Her  disappointment,  wake  me  if  she  could? 

And  spite  of  what  I  thought  of  her  before 

That  she  had  known  another  man  or  men, 

I  thought  now  I  was  first.     And  to  let  down, 

Slope  off  the  event,  our  parting  for  the  day 

Have  no  abruptness,  I  invited  her 

To  luncheon,  when  I  left  her  'twas  to  meet 

Again  at  noon.     We  met  and  parted  then. 

So  now  it  seemed  a  thing  achieved.     Two  weeks 

Elapsed  before  I  telephoned  her.     Then 

The  story  we  repeated  as  before, 

Same  room  and  all.     But  meantime  we  had  sat 

Some  moments  over  tea,  the  orchestra 

Played  Chopin  for  her." 

"  Then  she  handed  me 
A  little  box,  I  opened  it  and  found 
A  locket  too  ornate,  her  picture  in  it, 
A  little  flag." 

"  So  in  that  moment  there 
Love  came  to  me  for  Elenor  Murray.     Music, 
That  poor  pathetic  locket,  and  her  way 
So  humble,  so  devoted,  and  the  thought 

[331] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Of  those  months  past,  wherein  she  never  swerved 
From  ways  of  love,  in  spite  of  all  my  moods, 
Half-hearted,  distant  —  these  combined  at  once, 
And  with  a  flame  that  rose  up  silently 
Consumed  my  heart  with  love." 

"  She  went  away, 

And  left  me  hungering,  lonely.     She  returned, 
And  saw  at  last  dubieties  no  more, 
The  answering  light  for  her  within  my  eyes." 

"  I  must  recur  a  little  here  to  say 

That  at  the  first,  first  meeting  it  may  be, 

With  Janet,  there  at  tea,  she  said  to  me 

She  had  signed  for  the  war,  would  go  to  France, 

To  nurse  the  soldiers.     You  cannot  remember 

What  people  say  at  first,  before  you  know, 

Have  interest  in  them.     Also  at  that  time 

I  had  no  interest  in  the  war,  believed 

The  war  would  end  before  we  took  a  hand. 

The  war  lay  out  of  me,  objectified 

Like  news  of  earthquakes  in  Japan.     And  then 

As  time  went  on  she  said :  '  I  do  not  know 

What  day  I  shall  be  called,  the  time's  at  hand.' 

I  loathed  the  Germans  then ;  but  loathed  the  war, 

The  hatred,  lying,  which  it  bred,  the  filth 

Spewed  over  Europe,  from  the  war,  on  us 

At  last.     I  loathed  it  all,  and  saw 

The  spirit  of  the  world  debauched  and  fouled 

With  blood  and  falsehood." 

[332] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

"  Elenor  found  in  me 
Cold  water  for  her  zeal,  and  even  asked : 
'  Are  you  pro-German  ?  —  no !  '     I  tried  to  say 
What  stirred  in  me,  she  did  not  comprehend, 
And  went  her  way  with  saying:  '  I  shall  serve, 
O,  glorious  privilege  to  serve,  to  give, 
And  since  this  love  of  ours  is  tragedy, 
Cannot  be  blessed  with  children,  or  with  home, 
It  will  be  better  if  I  die,  am  swept 
Under  the  tide  of  war  with  work.'     This  girl 
Exhausted  me  with  ardors,  spoken  faiths, 
And  zeal  which  never  tired,  until  at  last 
I  longed  for  her  to  go  and  make  an  end. 
What  better  way  to  end  it?  " 

"  April  came, 

One  day  she  telephoned  me  that  to-morrow 
She  left  for  France.     We  met  that  night  and  walked 
A  wind  swept  boulevard  by  the  lake,  and  she 
Was  luminous,  a  spirit;  tucked  herself 
Under  my  coat,  adored  me,  said  to  me: 
*  If  I  survive  I  shall  return  to  you, 
To  serve  you,  help  you,  be  your  friend  for  life, 
And  sacrifice  my  womanhood  for  you. 
You  cannot  marry  me,  in  spite  of  that 
If  I  can  be  your  comfort,  give  you  peace, 
That  will  be  marriage,  all  that  God  intends 
As  marriage  for  me.     You  have  blessed  me,  dear, 
With  hope  and  happiness.     And  oh  at  last 
You  did  behold  the  war  as  good,  you  give  me, 

[333]  " 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

You  send  me  to  the  war.     I  serve  for  you, 
I  serve  the  country  in  your  name,  your  love, 
So  blessed  for  you,  your  love.'  " 

"  That  night  at  two 
I  woke  somehow  as  if  an  angel  stood 
Beside  the  bed  in  light,  beneficence, 
And  found  her  head  close  to  my  heart  —  she  woke 
At  once  with  me,  spoke  dreamily  '  Dear  heart/ 
Then  turned  to  sleep  again.     I  loved  her  then." 

"  She  left  next  day.     An  olden  mood  came  back 
Which  said,  the  end  has  come,  and  it  is  best. 
I  left  the  city  too,  breathed  freer  then, 
Sought  new  companionships.     But  in  three  days 
My  heart  was  sinking,  sickness  of  the  heart, 
Nostalgia  took  me.     How  to  fight  it  off 
Became  the  daily  problem;  work,  diversions 
Seemed  best  for  cures.     The  malady  progressed 
Beyond  the  remedies.     My  wife  came  back, 
Divined  my  trouble,   laughed.     And  every  day 
The  papers  pounded  nerves  with  battle  news ; 
The  bands  were  playing,  soldiers  marched  the  streets. 
And  taggers  on  the  corner  every  day 
Reminded  you  of  suffering  and  of  want. 
And  orators  were  talking  where  you  ate: 
Bonds  must  be  bought  —  war  —  war  was  everywhere. 
There  was  no  place  remote  to  hide  from  it, 
And  rest  from  its  insistence.     Then  began 
Elenor  Murray's  letters  sent  from  France, 
[334] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

Which  told  of  what  she  did,  and  always  said: 

'  Would  you  were  with  me,  serving  in  the  war. 

If  you  could  come  and  serve ;  they  need  you,  dear  ; 

You  could  do  much.'     Until  at  last  the  war 

Which  had  lain  out  of  me,  objectified, 

Became  a  part  of  me,  I  saw  the  war, 

And  felt  the  war  through  her,  and  every  tune 

And  every  marching  soldier,  every  word 

Spoken  by  orators  said  Elenor  Murray. 

At  dining  places,  theatres,  pursued 

By  this  one  thought  of  war  and  Elenor  Murray; 

In  every  drawing  room  pursued,  pursued 

In  quiet  places  by  the  memories. 

I  had  no  rest.     The  war  and  love  of  her 

Had  taken  body  of  me,  soul  of  me, 

With  madness,  ecstasy,  and  nameless  longing, 

Hunger  and  hope,  fear  and  despair  —  but  love 

For  Elenor  Murray  with  intenser  flame 

Ran  round  it  all." 

"  At  last  all  other  things : 

Place  in  the  world,  my  business,  and  my  home, 
My  wife  if  she  be  counted,  sunk  away 
To  nothingness.     I  stood  stripped  of  the  past, 
Saw  nothing  but  the  war  and  Elenor, 
Saw  nothing  but  the  day  of  finding  her 
In  France,  and  serving  there  to  be  with  her, 
Or  near  where  I  could  see  her,  go  to  her, 
Perhaps  if  she  was  ill  or  needed  me. 
And  so  I  went  to  France,  began  to  serve, 

[335] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Went  in  the  ordnance.     In  that  ecstasy 
Of  war,  religion,  love,  found  happiness; 
Became  a  part  of  the  event,  and  cured 
My  languors,  boredom,  longing,  in  the  work ; 
And  saw  the  war  as  greatest  good,  the  hand 
Of  God  through  all  of  it  to  bring  the  world 
Beauty  and  Freedom,  a  millennium 
Of  Peace  and  Justice." 

"  So  the  days  went  by 

With  work  and  waiting,  waiting  for  the  hour 
When  Elenor  should  have  a  furlough,  come 
To  Paris,  see  me.     And  she  came  at  last." 

"  Before  she  came  she  wrote  me,  told  me  where 
To  meet  her  first.     '  At  two  o'clock,'  she  wrote, 
'  Be  on  the  landing  back  of  the  piano  ' 
Of  a  hotel  she  named.     An  ominous  thought 
Passed  through  my  brain,  as  through  a  room  a  bat 
Flits  in  and  out.     I  read  the  letter  over: 
How  could  this  letter  pass  the  censor?     Escape 
The  censor's  eye?     But  eagerness  of  passion, 
And  longing,  love,  submerged  such  thoughts  as  these. 
I  walked  the  streets  and  waited,  loitered  through 
The  Garden  of  the  Tuilleries,  watched  the  clocks, 
The  lagging  minutes,  counted  with  their  strokes. 
And  then  at  last  the  longed  for  hour  arrived. 
I  reached  the  landing  —  what  a  meeting  place ! 
With  pillars,  curtains  hiding  us,  a  nook 
No  one  could  see  us  in,  unless  he  spied. 
[336] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

And  she  was  here,  was  standing  by  the  corner 

Of  the  piano,  very  pale  and  worn, 

Looked  down,  not  at  me,  pathos  over  her 

Like  autumn  light.     I  took  her  in  my  arms, 

She  could  not  speak,  it  seemed.     I  could  not  speak. 

Dumb  sobs  filled  heart  and  throat  of  us.     And  then 

I  held  her  from  me,  looked  at  her,  re-clasped 

Her  head  against  my  breast,  with  choking  breath 

That  was  half  whisper,  half  a  cry,  I  said, 

'  I  love  you,  love  you,  now  at  last  we're  here 

Together,  oh,  my  love !  '     She  put  her  lips 

Against  my  throat  and  kissed  it:     'Oh,  my  love, 

You  really  love  me,  now  I  know  and  see, 

My  soul,  my  dear  one,'  Elenor  breathed  up 

The  words  against  my  throat." 

11  We  took  a  suite : 

Soft  rugs  upon  the  floor,  a  bed  built  up, 
And  canopied  with  satin,  on  the  wall 
Some  battle  pictures,  one  of  Bonaparte, 
A  bottle  of  crystal  water  on  a  stand 
And  roses  in  a  bowl  —  the  room  was  sweet 
With  odors,  and  so  comfortable.     Here  we  stood. 
'  It's  Paris,  dear,'  she  said,  '  we  are  together; 
You're  serving  in  the  war,  how  glorious! 
We  love  each  other,  life  is  good  —  so  good !  ' 
That  afternoon  we  saw  the  city  a  little, 
So  many  things  occurred  to  prophesy, 
Interpret." 

,,^ 
[337] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

"  And  that  night  we  saw  the  moon, 
One  star  above  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  over 
The  chariot  of  bronze  and  leaping  horses. 
Dined  merrily  and  slept  and  woke  together 
Beneath  that  satin  canopy." 

"  In  brief, 

The  days  went  by  with  laughter  and  with  love. 
We  watched  the  Seine  from  bridges,  in  a  spell 
There  at  Versailles  in  the  Temple  of  Love 
Sat  in  the  fading  day." 

"  Upon  the  lawn 

She  took  her  diary  from  her  bag  and  read 
What  she  had  done  in  France;  years  past  as  well. 
Began  to  tell  me  of  a  Simeon  Strong 
Whom  she  was  pledged  to  marry  years  before. 
How  jealousy  of  Simeon  Strong  destroyed 
His  love,  and  all  because  in  innocence 
She  had  received  some  roses  from  a  friend. 
That  led  to  other  men  that  she  had  known 
Who  wished  to  marry  her,  as  she  said.     But  most 
She  talked  of  Simeon  Strong;  then  of  a  man 
Who  had  absorbed  her  life  until  she  went 
In  training  as  a  nurse,  a  married  man, 
Whom  she  had  put  away,  himself  forgetting 
A  hopeless  love  he  crushed.     Until  at  last 
I  said,  no  more,  my  dear  —  The  past  is  dead, 
What  is  the  past  to  me?     It  could  not  be 
That  you  could  live  and  never  meet  a  man 

[338] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

To  love  you,  whom  you  loved.     And  then  at  last 

She  put  the  diary  in  her  bag,  we  walked 

And  scanned  the  village  from  the  heights ;  the  train 

Took  back  for  Paris,  went  to  dine,  be  gay. 

This  afternoon  was  the  last,  this  night  the  last. 

To-morrow  she  was  going  back  to  work, 

And  I  was  to  resume  my  duties  too, 

Both  hopeful  for  another  meeting  soon, 

The  war's  end,  a  re-union,  some  solution 

Of  what  was  now  a  problem  hard  to  bear." 

"  We  left  our  dinner  early,  she  was  tired, 
There  in  our  room  again  we  clung  together, 
Grieved  for  the  morrow.     Sadness  fell  upon  us, 
Her  eyes  were  veiled,  her  voice  was  low,  her  speech 
Was  brief  and  nebulous.     She  soon  disrobed, 
Lay  with  her  hair  spread  out  upon  the  pillow, 
One  hand  above  the  coverlet." 

"  And  soon 

Was  lying  wi*h  head  turned  from  me.     I  sat 
And  read  to  man  my  grief.     You  see  the  war 
Blew  to  intenser  flame  all  moods,  all  love, 
All  grief  at  parting,  fear,  or  doubt.     At  last 
As  I  looked  up  to  see  her  I  could  see 
Her  breast  with  sleep  arise  and  fall.     The  silence 
Of  night  was  on  the  city,  even  her  breath 
I  heard  as  she  was  sleeping  —  for  myself 
I  wondered  what  I  was  and  why  I  was, 
What  world  is  this  and  why,  and  if  there  be 

[339] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

God  who  creates  us  to  this  life,  then  why 

This  agony  of  living,  peace  or  war; 

This  agony  which  grows  greater,  never  less, 

And  multiplies  its  sources  with  the  days, 

Increases  its  perplexities  with  time, 

And  gives  the  soul  no  rest.     And  why  this  love, 

This  woman  in  my  life.     The  mystery 

Of  my  own  torture  asked  to  be  explained. 

And  why  I  married  whom  I  married,  why 

She  was  content  to  stand   far  off  and  watch 

My  crucifixion.     Why?" 

"  And  with  these  thoughts 

Came  thought  of  changing  them.     A  wonder  slipped 
About  her  diary  in  my  brain.     I  paused, 
Said  to  myself,  you  have  no  right  to  spy 
Upon  such  secret  records,  yet  indeed 
A  devilish  sense  of  curiosity 
Came  as  relaxment  tc  my  graver  mood, 
As  one  will  fetch  up  laughter  to  dispel 
Thoughts  that  cannot  be  quelled  or  made  to  take 
The  form  of  action,  clarity.     I  arose 
Took  from  her  bag  the  diary,  turned  to  see 
What  entry  she  had  made  when  first  she  came 
And  gave  herself,  to  me.     And  look !     The  page 
Just  opposite  from  this  had  words  to  show 
She  gave  herself  to  Gregory  Wenner  just 
The  week  that  followed  on  the  week  in  which 
She  gave  herself  to  me." 

[340] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

"  A  glass  of  water, 
Before  I  can  proceed !  "  .  .  . 

"  I  reeled  and  struck 

The  bed  post.     She  awoke.     I  thought  that  death 
Had  come  with  apoplexy,  could  not  see, 
And  in  a  spell  vertiginous,  with  hands 
That  shook  and  could  not  find  the  post,  stood  there 
Palsied  from  head  to  foot.     Quick,  she  divined 
The  event,  the  horror  anyway,  sprang  out, 
And  saw  the  diary  lying  at  my  feet. 
Before  I  gained  control  of  self,  could  catch 
Or  hold  her  hands,  she  seized  it,  threw  it  out 
The  window  on  the  street,  and  flung  herself 
Face  down  upon  the  bed." 

"Oh  awful  hell! 

What  other  entries  did  I  miss,  what  shames 
Recorded  since  she  left  me,  here  in  France? 
What  was  she  then?     A  woman  of  one  sin, 
Or  many  sins,  her  life  filled  up  with  treason, 
Since  I  had  left  her?" 

"  And  now  think  of  me: 

This  monstrous  war  had  entered  me  through  her, 
Its  passion,  beauty,  promise  came  through  her 
Into  my  blood  and  spirit,  swept  me  forth 
From  country,  life  I  knew,  all  settled  things. 
I  had  gone  mad  through  her,  and  from  her  lips 
Had  caught  the  poison  of  the  war,  its  hate, 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Its  yellow  sentiment,   its  sickly  dreams, 

Its  lying  ideals,  and  its  gilded  filth. 

And  here  she  lay  before  me,  like  a  snake 

That  having  struck,  by  instinct  now  is  limp ; 

By  instinct  knows  its  fangs  have  done  their  work, 

And  merely  lies  and  rests." 

"  I  went  to  her, 

Pulled  down  her  hands  from  eyes  and  shook  her  hard : 
What  is  this?    Tell  me  all?" 

"She   only  said: 
'  You  have  seen  all,  know  all.'  " 

"  '  You  do  not  mean 

That  was  the  first  and  last  with  him  ?  '     She  said, 
'  That  is  the  truth.'     '  You  lie,'  I  answered  her. 
'  You  lie  and  all  your  course  has  been  a  lie : 
Your  words  that  asked  me  to  be  true  to  you, 
That  I  could  break  your  heart.     The  breasts  you  showed 
Flowering  because  of  me,  as  you  declared ; 
Our  intimacy  of  bodies  in  the  dance 
Now  first  permitted  you  because  of  love; 
Your  plaints  for  truth  and  for  fidelity, 
Your  fears,  a  practiced  veteran  in  the  game, 
All  simulated.     And  your  prayer  to  God 
For  me,  our  love,  your  protests  for  the  war, 
For  service,  sacrifice,  your  mother  hunger, 
Are  all  elaborate  lies,  hypocrisies, 
Studied  in  coolest  cruelty,  and  mockery 

[342] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

Of  every  lovely  thing,  if  there  can  be 

A  holy  thing  in  life,  as  there  cannot, 

As  you  have  proven  it.     The  diary's  gone  — 

And  let  it  go  —  you  kept  it  from  my  eyes 

Which  shows  that  there  was  more.     What  are  you  then, 

A  whore,  that's  all,  a  masquerading  whore, 

Not  worthy  of  the  hand  that  plies  her  trade 

In  openness,  without  deceit.     For  if 

This  was  the  first  and  only  time  with  him 

Here  is  dissimulation  month  by  month 

By  word  of  mouth,  in  letters  by  the  score; 

And  here  your  willingness  to  take  my  soul 

And  feed  upon  it.     Knowing  that  my  soul 

Through  what  I  thought  was  love  was  caught  and  whirled 

To  faith  in  the  war,  and  faith  in  you  as  one 

Who  symbolized  the  war  as  good,  as  means 

Of  goodness  for  the  world  —  and  this  deceit, 

Insane,  remorseless,  conscienceless,  is  worse 

Than  what  you  did  with  him.     I  could  forgive 

Disloyalty  like  that,  but  this  deceit 

Is  unforgivable.     I  go,'  I  said. 

I  turned  to  leave.     She  rose  up  from  the  bed, 

*  Forgive !     Forgive ! '  she  pleaded,  '  I  was  mad, 

Be  fair !     Be  fair !     You  took  me,  turned  from  me, 

Seemed  not  to  want  me,  so  I  went  to  him. 

I  cried  the  whole  day  long  when  first  I  gave 

Myself  to  you,  for  thinking  you  had  found 

All  that  you  wanted,  left  me,  did  not  care 

To  see  me  any  more.     I  swear  to  you 

I  have  been  faithful  to  you  since  that  day 

[343] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

When  we  heard  Chopin  played,  and  I  could  see 
You  loved  me,  and  I  loved  you.     O  be  fair!  '  "  .  .  . 

Then  Barrett  Bays  shook  like  an  animal 
That  starves  and  freezes.     And  the  jury  looked 
And  waited  till  he  got  control  of  self 
And  spoke  again  his  horror  and  his  grief :  — 
"  I  left  her,  went  upon  the  silent  streets, - 
And  walked  the  night  through  half  insane,  I  think. 
Cannot  remember  what  I  saw  that  night, 
Have  only  blurs  of  buildings,  arches,  towers, 
Remember  dawn  at  last,  returning  strength, 
And  taking  rolls  and  coffee,  all  my  spirit 
Grown  clear  and  hard  as  crystal,  with  a  will 
As  sharp  as  steel  to  find  reality: 
To  see  life  as  it  is  and  face  its  terrors, 
And  never  feel  a  tremor,  bat  an  eye. 
Drink  any  cup  to  find  the  truth,  and  be 
A  pioneer  in  a  world  made  new  again, 
Stripped  of  the  husks,  bring  new  faith  to  the  world, 
Of  souls  devoted  to  themselves  to  make 
Souls  truer,  more  developed,  wise  and  fair! 
Write  down  the  creed  of  service,  and  write  in 
Self-culture,  self-dependence,  throw  away 
The  testaments  of  Jesus,  old  and  new, 
Save  as  they  speak  and  help  the  river  life 
To  mould  our  truer  beings ;  the  rest  discard 
Which  teaches  compensation,  to  forgive 
That  you  may  be  forgiven,  mercy  show 
That  mercy  may  be  yours,  and  love  your  neighbor, 
[344] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

Love  so  to  gain  —  all  balances  like  this 

Of  doctrine  for  the  spirit  false  and  vile, 

Corrupted  with  such  calculating  filth ; 

And  if  you'd  be  the  greatest,  be  the  servant  — 

When  one  to  be  the  greatest  must  be  great 

In  self,  a  light,  a  harmony  in  self, 

Perfected  by  the  inner  law,  the  works 

Done  for  the  sake  of  beauty,  for  the  self 

Without  the  hope  of  gain  except  the  soul, 

Your  one  possession,  grows  a  perfect  thing 

If  tended,  studied,  disciplined.     While  all 

This  ethic  of  the  war,  the  sickly  creed 

Which  Elenor  Murray  mouthed,  but  hides  the  will 

Which  struggles  still,  would  live,  lies  to  itself, 

Lies  to  its  neighbor  and  the  world,  and  leaves 

Our  life  upon  a  wall  of  rotting  rock 

Of  village  mortals,  patriotism,  lies !  " 

"  And  as  for  that,  what  did  I  see  in  Paris 

But  human  nature  working  in  the  war 

As  everywhere  it  works  in  peace?     Cabals, 

And  jealousies  and  hatreds,  greed  alert; 

Ambition,  cruelty,  strife  piled  on  strife; 

No  peace  in  labor  that  was  done  for  peace; 

Hypocrisy  elaborate  and  rampant. 

Saw  at  first  hand  what  coiled  about  the  breast 

Of  Florence  Nightingale  when  she  suffered,  strove 

In  the  Crimean  War,  struck  down  by  envy, 

Or  nearly  so.     Oh,  is  it  human  nature, 

That  fights  like  maggots  in  the  rotting  carcass? 

[345] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Or  is  it  human  nature  tortured,  bound 
By  artificial  doctrines,  creeds  which  all 
Pretend  belief  in,  really  doubt,  resist 
And  cannot  live  by  ?  " 

"  If  I  had  a  thought 
Of  charity  toward  this  woman  then 
It  was  that  she,  a  little  mind,  had  tried.. 
To  live  the  faith  against  her  nature,  used 
A  woman's  cunning  to  get  on  in  life. 
For  as  I  said  it  was  her  lies  that  hurt. 
And  had  she  lied,  had  she  been  living  free, 
Unshackled  of  our  system,  faith  and  cult, 
American  or  Christian,  what  you  will? 

"  She  was  a  woman  free  or  bound,  but  women 
Enslave  and  rule  by  sex.     The  female  tigers 
Howl  in  the  jungle  when  their  dugs  are  dry 
For  meat  to  suckle  cubs.     And  Germany 
Of  bullet  heads  and  bristling  pompadours, 
And  wives  made  humble,  cowed  by  basso  brutes, 
Had  women  to  enslave  the  brutes  with  sex, 
And  make  them  seek  possessions,  land  and  food 
For  breeding  women  and  for  broods." 

"  And  now 

If  women  make  the  wars,  yet  nurse  the  sick, 
The  wounded  in  the  wars,  when  peace  results, 
What  peace  will  be,  except  a  peace  that  fools 
The  gaping  idealist,  all  souls  in  truth 

[346] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

But  souls  like  mine?     A  peace  that  leaves  the  world 

Just  where  it  was  with  women  in  command 

Who,  weak  but  cunning,  clinging  to  the  faith 

Of  Christ,  therefore  as  organized  and  made 

A  part,  if  not  the  whole  of  western  culture. 

Away  with  all  of  this !     Blow  down  the  mists, 

The  rainbows,  give  us  air  and  cloudless  skies. 

Give  water  to  our  fevered  eyes,  give  strength 

To  see  what  is  and  live  it,  tear  away 

These  clumsy  scaffoldings,  by  which  the  mystics, 

Ascetics,  mad-men  all  St.  Stylites 

Would  rise  above  the  world  of  body,  brain, 

Thirst,  hunger,  living,  nature !     Let  us  free 

The  soul  of  man  from  sophists,  logic  spinners, 

The  mad-magicians  who  would  conjure  death, 

Yet  fear  him  most  themselves,  the  coward  hearts 

Who  mouth  eternal  bliss,  yet  cling  to  earth 

And  keep  away  from  heaven." 

"  For  it's  true 

Nature,  or  God,  gives  birth  and  also  death. 
And  power  has  never  come  to  draw  the  sting 
Of  death  or  make  it  pleasant,  creed  nor  faith 
Prevents  disease,  old  age  and  death  at  last. 
This  truth  is  here  and  we  must  face  it,  or 
Lie  to  ourselves  and  cloud  our  brains  with  lies, 
Postponements  and  illusions,  childish  hopes! 
But  lie  most  childish  is  the  Christian  myth 
Of  Adam's  fall,  by  which  disease  and  death 
Entered  the  world,  until  the  Savior  came 
[347] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  conquered  death.     He  did?     But  people  die, 

Some  millions  slaughtered  in  the  war !     They  live 

In  heaven,  say  your  Elenor  Murrays,  well, 

Who  knows  this?     If  you  know  it,  why  drop  tears 

For  people  better  off?     How  ludicrous 

The  patch-work  is!     I  leave  it,  turn  again 

To  what  man  in  this  world  can  do  with  life 

Made  free  of  superstition,  rules  and  faiths,  , 

That  make  him  lie  to  self  and  to  his  fellows."  .  .  . 

And  Barrett  Bays,  now  warmed  up  to  his  work, 

Grown  calmer,  stronger,  mind  returned,  that  found 

Full  courage  for  the  thought,  the  word  to  say  it 

Recurred  to  Elenor  Murray,  analyzed:  — 

And  now  a  final  word :     "  This  Elenor  Murray, 

What  was  she,  just  a  woman,  a  little  life 

Swept  in  the  war  and  broken?     If  no  more, 

She  is  not  worth  these  words :     She  is  the  symbol 

Of  our  America,  perhaps  this  world 

This  side  of  India,  of  America 

At  least  she  is  the  symbol.     What  was  she? 

A  restlessness,  a  hunger,  and  a  zeal  ; 

A  hope  for  goodness,  and  a  tenderness ; 

A  love,  a  sorrow,  and  a  venturing  will ; 

A  dreamer  fooled  but  dreaming  still,  a  vision 

That  followed  lures  that  fled  her,  generous,  loving, 

But  also  avid  and  insatiable; 

An  egoism  chained  and  starved  too  long 

That  breaks  away  and  runs;  a  cruelty, 

A  wilfulness,  a  dealer  in  false  weights, 

[348] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

And  measures  of  herself,  her  duty,  others, 

A  lust,  a  slick  hypocrisy  and  a  faith 

Faithless  and  hollow.     But  at  last  I  say 

She  taught  me,  saved  me  for  myself,  and  turned 

My  steps  upon  the  path  of  making  self 

As  much  as  I  can  make  myself  —  my  thanks 

To  Elenor  Murray!" 

"  For  that  day  I  saw 

The  war  for  what  it  was,  and  saw  myself 
An  artificial  factor,  working  there 
Because  of  Elenor  Murray  —  what  a  fool! 
I  was  not  really  needed,  like  too  many 
Was  just  pretending,  though  I  did  not  know 
That  I  was  just  pretending,  saw  myself 
Swept  in  this  mad  procession  by  a  woman; 
And  through  myself  I  saw  the  howling  mob 
Back  in  America  that  shouted  hate, 
In  God's  name,  all  the  carriers  of  flags, 
The  superheated  patriots  who  did  nothing, 
Gave  nothing  but  the  clapping  of  their  hands, 
And  shouts  for  freedom  of  the  seas.     The  souls 
Who  hated  freedom  on  the  sea  or  earth, 
Had,  as  the  vile  majority,  set  up 
Intolerable  tyrannies  in  America, 
America  that  launched  herself  without 
A  God  or  faith,  but  in  the  name  of  man 
And  for  humanity,  so  long  accursed 
By  Gods  and  priests  —  the  vile  majority ! 
Which  in  the  war,  and  through  the  war  went  on 

[349] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

With  other  tyrannies  as  to  meat  and  drink, 

Thought,  speech,  the  mind  in  living  —  here  was  I 

One  of  the  vile  majority  through  a  woman  — 

And  serving  in  the  war  because  of  her, 

And  meretricious  sentiments  of  her. 

You  see  I  had  the  madness  of  the  world, 

Was  just  as  crazy  as  America. 

And  like  America  must  wake  from  madness. 

And  suffer,  and  regret,  and  build  again. 

My  soul  was  soiled,  you  see.     And  now  I  saw 

How  she  had  pressed  her  lips  against  my  soul 

And  sapped  my  spirit  in  the  name  of  beauty 

She  simulated;  for  a  loyalty 

Her  lips  averred ;  how  as  a  courtesan 

She  had  made  soft  my  tissues,  like  an  apple 

Handled  too  much;  how  vision  of  me  went 

Into  her  life  sucked  forth;  how  never  a  word 

Which  ever  came  from  her  interpreted 

In  terms  of  worth  the  war;  how  she  had  coiled 

Her  serpent  loins  about  me;  how  she  draped 

Herself  in  ardors  borrowed;  how  my  arms 

Were  mottled  from  the  needle's  scar  where  she 

Had  shot  the  opiates  of  her  lying  soul; 

How  asking  truth,  she  was  herself  untrue; 

How  she,  adventuress  in  the  war,  had  sought 

From  lust  grown  stale,  renewal  of  herself. 

And  then  at  last  I  saw  her  scullery  brows 

Fail  out  and  fade  beside  the  Republic's  face, 

And  leave  me  free  upon  the  hills,  who  saw, 

Strong,  seeking  cleanliness  in  truth,  her  hand 

[350] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

Which  sought  the  cup  worn  smooth  by  leper  lips 

Dipped  in  the  fountain  where  the  thirst  of  many 

Passionate  pilgrims  had  been  quenched, 

Not  lifted  up  by  me,  nor  yet  befriended 

By  the  cleaner  cup  I  offered.     Now  you  think 

That  I  am  hard.     Philosophy  is  hard, 

And  I  philosophize,  admit  as  well 

That  I  have  failed,  am  full  of  faults  myself, 

All  faults,  we'll  say,  but  one,   I  trust  and  pray 

The  fault  of  falsehood  and  hypocrisy."  .  .  . 

"  I  gave  my  work  in  Paris  up  —  that  day 
Made  ready  to  return,  but  with  this  thought 
To  use  my  wisdom  for  the  war,  do  work 
For  America  that  had  no  touch  of  her, 
No  flavor  of  her  nature,  far  removed 
From  the  symphony  of  sex,  be  masculine, 
Alone,  and  self-sufficient,  needing  nothing, 
No  hand,  no  kiss,  no  mate,  pure  thought  alone 
Directed  to  this  work.     I  found  the  work 
And  gave  it  all  my  energy." 

"  From  then 

I  wrote  her  nothing,  though  she  wrote  to  me 
These  more  than  hundred  letters  —  here  they  are! 
Since  you  have  mine  brought  to  you  from  New  York 
All  written  before  she  went  to  France,  I  think 
You  should  have  hers  to  make  the  woman  out 
And  read  her  as  she  wrote  herself  to  me. 

[351] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  rest  is  brief.     She  cabled  when  she  sailed, 
And  wrote  me  from  New  York.     While  at  LeRoy 
With  Irma  Leese  she  wrote  me.     Then  that  day 
She  telephoned  me  when  she  motored  here 
With  Irma  Leese,  and  said:  '  Forgive,  forgive, 

0  see  me,  come  to  me,  or  let  me  come 

To  you,  you  cannot  crush  me  out.     These  months 

Of  silence,  what  are  they?     Eternity 

Makes  nothing  of  these  months.     I  love  you,  never 

In  all  eternity  shall  cease  to  love  you, 

Love  makes  you  mine,  and  you  must  come  to  me 

Now  or  hereafter.'  ' 

"  And  you  see  at  last 
My  soul  was  clear  again,  as  clean  and  cold 
As  our  March  days,  as  clear  too,  and  the  war 
Stood  off  envisioned  for  the  thing  it  was. 
Peace  now  had  come,  which  helped  our  eyes  to  see 
What  dread  event  the  war  was.     So  to  see 
This  woman  with  these  eyes  of  mine,  made  true 
And  unpersuadable  of  her  plaints  and  ways 

1  gave  consent  and  went." 

"  Arriving  first, 

I  walked  along  the  river  till  she  came. 
And  as  I  saw  her,  I  looked  through  the  tricks 
Of  dress  she  played  to  win  me,  I  could  see 
How  she  arrayed  herself  before  the  mirror, 
Adjusting  this  or  that  to  make  herself 
Victorious  in  the  meeting.     But  my  eyes 

[352] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

Were  wizard  eyes  for  her,  and  this  she  knew, 
Began  at  first  to  writhe,  change  color,  flap 
Her  nervous  hands  in  gestures  half  controlled. 
I  only  said,  '  Good  morning,'  took  her  hand, 
She  tried  to  kiss  me,  but  I  drew  away. 
'  I  have  been  true/  she  said,  *  I  love  you,  dear, 
If  I  was  false  and  did  not  love  you,  why 
Would  I  pursue  you,  write  you,  all  against 
Your  coldness  and  your  silence?     O  believe  me, 
The  war  and  you  have  changed  me.     I  have  served, 
Served  hard  among  the  sufferers  in  the  war, 
Sustained  by  love  for  you.     I  come  to  you 
And  give  my  life  to  you,  take  it  and  use, 
Keep  me  your  secret  joy.     I  do  not  dream 
Of  winning  you  in  marriage.     Here  and  now 
I  humble  self  to  you,  ask  nothing  of  you, 
Except  your  kindness,  love  again,  if  love 
Can  come  again  to  you  —  O  this  must  be ! 
It  is  my  due  who  love  you,  with  my  soul, 
My  body.'  " 

"  '  No,'  I  said,  '  I  can  forgive 
All  things  but  lying  and  hypocrisy.'  .  .  . 
How  could  I  trust  her?     She  had  kept  from  me 
The  diary,  threw  it  from  the  window,  what 
Was  life  of  her  in  France?     Should  I  expunge 
This  Gregory  Wenner,  what  was  life  of  her 
In  France,  I  ask.     And  so  I  said  to  her: 
'  I  have  no  confidence  in  you  ' —  O  well 
I  told  the  jury  all.     But  quick  at  once 

[353] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

She  showed  to  me,  that  if  I  could  forgive 

Her  course  of  lying,  she  was  changed  to  me, 

The  war  had  changed  her,  she  was  hard  and  wild, 

Schooled  in  the  ways  of  soldiers,  and  in  war. 

That  beauty  of  her  womanhood  was  gone, 

Transmuted  into  waywardness,  distaste 

For  simple  ways,  for  quiet,  loveliness. 

The  adventuress  in  her  was  magnified, 

Cleared  up  and  set,  she  had  become  a  shrike, 

A  spar  hawk,  and  I  loathed  her  for  these  ways 

Which  she  revealed,  dropping  her  gentleness 

When  it  had  failed  her.     Yes,  I  saw  in  her 

The  war  at  last;  its  lying  and  its  hate, 

Its  special  pleading,  and  its  double  dealing, 

Its  lust,  its  greed,  its  covert  purposes, 

Its  passion  out  of  hell  which  obelised 

Such  noble  things  in  man.     Its  crooked  uses 

Of  lofty  spirits,  flaming  fires  of  youth, 

Young  dreamers,  lovers.     And  at  last  she  said, 

As  I  have  told  the  jury,  what  she  did 

Was  natural,  and  I  cursed  her.     Then  she  shook, 

Turned  pale,  and  reeled,  I  caught  her,  held  her  up, 

She  died  right  in  my  arms !     And  this  is  all ; 

Except  that  had  I  killed  her  and  should  spend 

My  days  in  prison  for  it,  I  am  free, 

My  spirit  being  free." 

"Who  was  this  woman? 
This  Elenor  Murray  was  America; 
Corrupt,  deceived,  deceiving,  self-deceived, 

[354] 


BARRETT  BAYS 

Half-disciplined,  half-lettered,  crude  and  smart, 

Enslaved  yet  wanting  freedom,  brave  and  coarse, 

Cowardly,  shabby,  hypocritical, 

Generous,  loving,  noble,  full  of  prayer, 

Scorning,  embracing  rituals,  recreant 

To  Christ  so  much  professed;  adventuresome; 

Curious,  mediocre,  venal,  hungry 

For  money,  place,  experience,  restless,  no 

Repose,  restraint;  before  the  world  made  up 

To  act  and  sport  ideals,  go  abroad 

To  bring  the  world  its  freedom,  having  choked 

Freedom  at  home  —  the  girl  was  this  because 

These  things  were  bred  in  her,  she  breathed  them  in 

Here  where  she  lived  and  grew." 

Then  Barrett  Bays  stepped  down 
And  said,  "  If  this  is  all,  I'd  like  to  go." 
Then  David  Borrow  whispered  in  the  ear 
Of  Merival,  and  Merival  conferred 
With  Ritter  and  Llewellyn  George  and  said : 
"  We  may  need  you  again,  a  deputy 
Will  take  you  to  my  house,  and  for  the  time 
Keep  you  in  custody." 

The  deputy 
Came  in  and  led  him  from  the  jury  room. 


[355] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 


ELENOR  MURRAY 

Coroner  Merival  took  the  hundred  letters 
Which  Elenor  Murray  wrote  to  Barrett  Bays, 
Found  some  of  them  unopened,  as  he  said, 
And  read  them  to  the  jury.     Day  by  day 
She  made  a  record  of  her  life,  and  wrote 
Her  life  out  hour  by  hour,  that  he  might  know. 
The  hundredth  letter  was  the  last  she  wrote. 
And  this  the  Coroner  found  unopened,  cut 
The  envelope  and  read  it  in  these  words: 

"  You  see  I  am  at  Nice.     If  you  have  read 
The  other  letters  that  I  wrote  you  since 
Our  parting  there  in  Paris,  you  will  know 
About  my  illness ;  but  I  write  you  now 
Some  other  details." 

"  I  went  back  to  work 
So  troubled  and  depressed  about  you,  dear, 
About  myself  as  well.     I  thought  of  you, 
Your  suffering  and  doubt,  perhaps  your  hate. 
And  since  you  do  not  write  me,  not  a  line 
Have  written  since  we  parted,  it  may  be 
Hatred  has  entered  you  to  make  distrust 
Less  hard  to  bear.     But  in  no  waking  hour, 
And  in  no  hour  of  sleep  when  I  have  dreamed, 
Have  you  been  from  my  mind.     I  love  you,  dear, 
Shall  always  love  you,  all  eternity 

[356] 


ELENOR  MURRAY 

Cannot  exhaust  my  love,  no  change  shall  come 
To  change  my  love.     And  yet  to  love  you  so, 
And  have  no  recompense  but  silence,  thoughts 
Of  your  contempt  for  me,  make  exquisite 
The  suffering  of  my  spirit.     Could  I  sing 
My  sorrow  would  enchant  the  world,  or  write, 
I  might  regain  your  love  with  beauty  born 
Out  of  this  agony." 

"When  I  returned 
I  had  three  typhoid  cases  given  me. 
And  with  that  passion  which  you  see  in  me 
I  gave  myself  to  save  them,  took  this  love 
Which  fills  my  heart  for  you  and  nursed  them  with  it; 
Said  to  myself  to  keep  me  on  my  feet 
When  I  was  staggering  from  fatigue,  '  Give  now 
Out  of  this  love,  it  may  be  God's  own  gift 
With  which  you  may  restore  these  boys  to  health. 
What  matter  if  he  love  you  not.'     And  so 
For  twelve  hours  day  by  day  I  waged  with  death 
A  slowly  winning  battle." 

"  As  they  rallied, 

But  when  my  strength  was  almost  spent  —  what  comes? 
This  Miriam  Fay  writes  odiously  to  me. 
She  has  heard  something  of  our  love,  or  sensed 
Some  dereliction,  since  she  learned  that  I 
Had  not  been  to  confessional.     Anyway 
She  writes  me,  writes  our  head-nurse.     All  at  once 
A  cloud  of  vile  suspicion,  like  a  dust 

[357] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Blown  from  an  alley  takes  my  breath  away, 

And  blinds  my  eyes.     With  all  these  things  piled  up, 

My  labors  and  my  sorrow,  your  neglect, 

My  fears  of  a  dishonorable  discharge 

From  service,  which  I  love,  I  faint,  collapse, 

Have  streptococcus  of  the  throat,  and  lie 

Two  weeks  in  fever,  sleepless,  and  with  thoughts 

Of  you,  and  what  may  happen,  my  disgrace. 

But  suffering  brought  me  friends,  the  officers 

Perhaps  had  heard  the  scandal,  but  they  knew 

My  heart  was  in  the  work.     The  major  who 

Was  the  attending  doctor  of  these  boys 

I  broke  myself  with  nursing,  cared  for  me, 

And  cheered  me  with  his  praise.     And  so  it  was 

Your  little  soldier,  still  I  call  myself, 

Your  little  soldier,  though  you  own  me  not, 

Turned  failure  into  victory,  won  by  pain 

Befriending  hands.     The  major  kept  me  here 

And  intercepted  my  discharge,  procured 

My  furlough  here  in  Nice." 

"  I  rose  from  bed, 

Went  back  to  work,  in  nine  days  failed  again, 
This  time  with  influenza;  for  three  weeks 
Was  ill  enough  to  die,  for  all  the  while 
My  fever  raged,  my  heart  was  hurting  too, 
Because  of  you.     When  I  got  up  again 
I  looked  a  ghost,  was  weaker  than  a  child, 
At  last  came  here  to  Nice." 

[358] 


ELENOR  MURRAY 

This  is  the  hundredth 
Letter  that  I've  written  since  we  parted. 
My  heart  is  tired,  dear,  I  shall  write  no  more. 
You  shall  have  silence  for  your  silence,  yet 
When  I  am  silent,  trust  me  none  the  less, 
Believe  I  love  you.     If  you  say  that  I 
Have  hidden  secrets,  have  not  told  you  all, 
The  diary  flung  away  to  keep  my  life 
Beyond  your  eye's  inspection,  still  I  say 
Where  is  your  right  to  know  what  lips  I've  kissed, 
What  hopes  or  dreams  I  cherished  in  the  past 
Before  I  knew  you.     If  you  still  accuse 
My  spirit  of  deceit,  hypocrisy 
In  lifting  up  my  flower  of  love  to  you 
Fresh,  as  it  seemed,  with  morning  dew,  not  tears, 
I  have  my  own  defense  for  that,  you'll  see. 
Or  lastly,  if  your  love  is  turned  to  gall 
Because,  as  you  discovered,  body  of  love 
Was  given  to  Gregory  Wenner,  after  you 
Had  come  to  me  in  love  and  chosen  me 
As  servant  of  you  in  the  war,  I  write 
To  clear  myself  to  you  respecting  that, 
And  re-insist  'twas  body  of  love  alone, 
Not  love  I  gave,  and  what  I  gave  was  given 
Because  you  won  me,  left  me,  did  not  claim 
As  wholly  yours  what  you  had  won.     But  now, 
As  I  have  hope  of  life  beyond  the  grave, 
As  I  love  God,  though  serving  Him  but  ill, 
I  say  to  you,  I  have  been  wholly  yours 
In  spirit  and  in  body  since  the  day 

[359] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

I  gave  to  you  the  locket,  sat  with  you 
And  heard  the  waltz  of  Chopin,  six  days  after 
I  went  with  Gregory  Wenner.     I  explain 
Why  I  did  this,  shall  mention  it  no  more; 
You  must  be  satisfied  or  go  your  way 
In  bitterness  and  hatred." 

"  But  first,  my  love, 
As  spirits  equal  and  with  equal  rights, 
Or  privilege  of  equal  wrongs,  have  I 
Demanded  former  purity  of  you? 
I  have  repelled  revealments  of  your  past; 
Have  never  questioned  of  your  marriage,  asked, 
Which  might  be  juster,  rights  withdrawn  from  her; 
May  rightly  think,  since  you  and  she  have  life 
In  one  abode  together,  that  you  live 
As  marriage  warrants.     And  above  it  all 
Have  I  not  written  you  to  go  your  way, 
Find  pleasures  where  you  could,  have  only  begged 
That  you  keep  out  of  love,  continue  to  give 
Your  love  to  me?     And  why?     Be  cynical, 
And  think  I  gave  you  freedom  as  a  gallant 
That  I  might  with  a  quiet  conscience  take 
Such  freedom  for  myself.     It  is  not  true: 
I've  learned  the  human  body,  know  the  male, 
And  know  his  life  is  motile,  does  not  rest, 
And  wait,  as  woman's  does,  cannot  do  so. 
So  understanding  have  put  down  distaste, 
That  you  should  fare  in  freedom,  in  my  heart 
Have  wished  that  love  or  ideals  might  sustain 
[36o] 


ELENOR  MURRAY 

Your  spirit;  but  if  not,  my  heart  is  filled 

With  happiness,  if  you  love  me.     Take  these  thoughts 

And  with  them  solve  your  sorrow  for  my  past, 

Your  loathing  of  it,  if  you  feel  that  way 

However  bad  it  be,  whatever  sins 

Imagination  in  you  stirred  depicts 

As  being  in  my  past." 

"  Men  have  been  known 

Whom  women  made  fifth  husbands,  more  than  that. 
Not  my  case,  I'll  say  that,  and  if  you  face 
Reality,  and  put  all  passion  love 
Where  nature  puts  it  by  the  side  of  love 
Which  custom  favors,  you  have  only  left 
The  matter  of  the  truth  to  grasp,  believe, 
See  clearly  and  accept:     Do  I  swear  true 
I  love  you,  and  since  loving  you  am  faithful, 
Cannot  be  otherwise,  nor  wish  to  be?" 

"  Dear,  listen  and  be  fair.     You  did  not  love  me 

When  first  I  came  to  you.     You  did  not  ask, 

Because  of  love,  a  faithfulness;  in  truth 

You  did  not  ask  a  faithfulness  at  all. 

But  then  and  theretofore  you  treated  me 

As  woman  to  be  won,  a  happiness 

To  be  achieved  and  put  aside.     Be  fair, 

This  was  your  mood.     But  if  you  loved  me  then, 

Or  soon  thereafter  loved  me,  as  I  know, 

What  should  I  do?     I  loved  you,  am  a  woman. 

At  last  behold  your  love,  am  lifted,  thrilled. 

[361] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

See  what  I  thought  was  love  before  was  nothing; 

Know  I  was  never  loved  before  you  loved  me ; 

And  know  as  well  I  never  loved  before; 

Know  all  the  former  raptures  of  my  heart 

As  buds  in  March  closed  hard  and  scentless,  never 

The  June  before  for  my  heart!     O,  my  love, 

What  should  I  do  when  this  most  priceless  gift 

Was  held  up  like  a  crown  within  your  .hands 

To  place  upon  my  brows  —  what  should  I  do  ? 

Take  you  aside  and  say,  here  is  the  truth, 

Here's  Gregory  Wenner  —  what's  the  good  of  that? 

How  had  it  benefited  you  or  me, 

Increased  your  love,  or  founded  it  upon 

A  surer  rock  than  beauty?     Hideous  truth! 

Useless  too  often,  childish  in  such  case. 

You  would  have  suffered,  turned  from  me,  and  lost 

The  rapture  which  I  gave  you,  and  if  rapture 

Be  not  a  prize,  where  in  this  world  so  much 

Of  ugliness  and  agony  prevails, 

I  do  not  know  our  life." 

"  But  just  suppose 

I  gave  you  rapture,  beauty  —  you  concede 
I  gave  you  these,  that's  why  you  suffer  so: 
You  choose  to  think  them  spurious  since  you  found 
I   knew  this  Gregory  Wenner,   are  they  so? 
They  are  as  real  in  spite  of  Gregory  Wenner 
As  if  my  lips  had  been  a  cradled  child's. 
But  just  suppose,  as  I  began  to  say, 
You  never  had  discovered  Gregory  Wenner, 
[362] 


ELENOR  MURRAY 

And  had  the  rapture,  beauty  which  you  had, 

How  stands  the  case?    Was  I  not  justified 

In  hiding  Gregory  Wenner  to  preserve 

The  beauty  and  the  rapture  which  you  craved? 

Dear,  it  was  love  of  beauty  which  impelled 

What  you  have  called  deceit,  it  was  my  woman's 

Passionate  hope  to  give  the  man  she  loved 

The  beauty  which  he  saw  in  her  that  inspired 

My  acting,  as  you  phrase  it,  an  elaborate 

Hypocrisy,  an  ugly  word  from  you !  .  .  . 

But  listen,  dear,  how  spirit  works  in  love: 

When  you  beheld  me  pure,  I  would  be  pure; 

As  virginal,  I  would  be  virginal ; 

As  innocent,  I  would  be  innocent; 

As  truthful,  constant,  so  I  would  be  these 

Though  to  be  truthful,  constant  when  I  loved  you 

Came  to  me  like  my  breath,  as  natural. 

So  I  would  be  all  things  to  you  for  love, 

Fill  full  your  dreams,  your  vision  of  my  soul 

For  now  and  future  days^  but  make  myself 

In  days  before  I  knew  you  what  you  thought, 

Believed  and  cherished.     Hence  if  you  combine 

The  thought  that  what  I  was  did  not  concern  you, 

With  fear  that  if  you  knew,  your  heart  would  change; 

And  with  these  join  that  passionate  zeal  of  love 

To  be  your  lover,  wholly  beautiful, 

You  have  the  exposition  of  my  soul 

In  its  elaborate  deceit, —  your  words." 

"  Some  fifty  years  ago  a  man  and  woman 

[363] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Are  talking  in  a  room,  say  certain  things, 

We  were  not  there !     We  two  are  with  each  other 

Somewhere,  and  fifty  years  from  now,  we  two 

Will  look  to  after  souls  who  were  not  there 

Like  figures  in  a  crystal  globe;  I  mean 

To  lift  to  light  the  wounds  of  brooding  love, 

And  show  you  that  the  world  contains  events 

Of  which  we  live  in  ignorance,  if  we  know 

They  hurt  us  with  their  mystery,  coming  near 

In  our  soul's  cycle,  somehow.     But  the  dead, 

And  what  they  lived,  what  are  they?  —  what  the  things 

Of  our  dead  selves  to  selves  who  are  alive, 

And  live  the  hour  that's  given  us?  " 

"  What's  your  past 

To  me,  beloved,  if  your  soul  and  body 
Are  mine  to-day,  not  only  mine,  but  made 
By  living  more  my  own,  more  rich  for  me, 
More  truly  harmonized  with  me?     Believe  me 
You  are  my  highest  hope  made  real  at  last, 
The  climax  of  my  love  life,  I  accept 
Whatever  passed  in  rooms  in  years  gone  by; 
Whatever  contacts,  raptures,  pains  or  hopes 
As  schooling  of  your  soul  to  make  it  precious, 
And  for  my  worship,  my  advancement,  kneel 
And  thank  the  God  of  mysteries  and  wisdom 
Who  made  you  for  me,  let  me  find  you,  love  you!  " 

"  Now  of  myself  a  word.     In  years  to  come 
These   words   I  write  will  seem   all   truth  to  you, 

[364] 


ELENOR  MURRAY 

Their  prism  colors,  violet  and  red, 

Will  fade  away  and  leave  them  in  the  light 

Arranged  and  reasonable  and  wholly  true. 

Then  you  will  read  the  words:     I  found  you,  dear, 

After  a  life  of  pain;  and  you  will  see 

My  spirit  like  a  blossom  that  you  watch 

From  budding  to  unfolding,  knowing  thus 

How  it  matured  from  day  to  day.     I  say 

My  life  has  been  all  pain,  I  see  at  first 

A  father  and  a  mother  linked  in  strife. 

Am  thrown  upon  my  girlhood's  strength  to  teach, 

Earn  money  for  my  schooling,  would  know  French ; 

I  studied  Greek  a  little,  gave  it  up, 

Distractions,  duties,  came  too  fast  for  me. 

I  longed  to  sing,  took  lessons,  lack  of  money 

Ended  the  lessons.     But  above  it  all 

My  heart  was  like  an  altar  lit  with  flame, 

Aspired  to  heaven,  asked  for  sacrifice, 

For  incense  to  be  bright,  more  beautiful 

For  beauty's  sake.     And  in  my  soul's  despair, 

And  just  to  use  this  vital  flame,  I  turned 

To  God,  the  church.     You  must  be  stone  to  hear 

Such  words  as  these  and  not  relent,  an  image 

Of  basalt  which  I  pray  to  not  to  see 

And  not  to  hear!     But  listen!  look  at  me, 

Did  I  become  a  drifter,  wholly  fail? 

Did  I  become  a  common  woman,  turn 

To  common  life  and  ways?     Can  you  dispute 

My  eyes  were  fixed  upon  a  lovelier  life, 

Have  never  gaze  withdrawn  from  loveliness? 

[365] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Did  I  give  up,  or  break,  turn  to  the  flesh, 

Pleasures,  the  solace  of  the  senses  —  No ! 

Where  some  take  drink  to  ease  their  hurts  and  dull 

Their  disappointments,  I  renewed  my  will 

To  sacrifice  and  service,  work,  who  saw 

These  things  in  essence  may  be  drink  as  well, 

And  bring  the  end,   oblivion  while  you  live, 

But  bring  supremacy  instead  of  failure, 

Collapse,  disgust  and  fears.     Think  what  you  will 

Of  me  for  Gregory  Wenner,  and  imagine 

The  worst  you  may,  I  stand  here  as  I  am, 

With  my  life  proven !     And  to  end  the  pain 

I  went  to  nurse  the  soldiers  in  the  war 

With  thoughts  that  if  I  died  in  service,  good! 

Not  that  I  gladly  give  up  life,  I  love  it. 

But  life  must  be  surrendered ;  let  it  be 

In  service,  as  some  end  it  up  in  drink, 

Or  opium  or  lust.     Beloved  heart, 

I  know  my  will  is  stronger  than  my  vision, 

That  passion  masters  judgment;  that  my  love 

For  love  and  life  and  beauty  are  too  much 

For  gifts  like  mine;  I  know  that  I  am  dumb, 

Songless,  without  articulate  words  —  but  still 

My  very  dumbness  is  a  kind  of  speech 

Which  some  day  will  flood  down  your  deafened  rocks, 

And  sweep  my  meaning  over  you." 

"Well,    now 

Why  did  I  turn  to  Gregory  from  you? 
I  did  not  love  you  or  I  had  not  done  it. 

[366] 


ELENOR  MURRAY 

You  did  not  love  me  or  I  had  not  done  it. 
I  loved  him  once,  he  had  been  good  to  me. 
He  was  an  old  familiar  friend  and  touch.  .  .  . 
Farewell,  if  it  must  be,  but  save  me  grief, 
The  greatest  agony:     Be  brave  and  strong, 
Be  all  that  God  requires  your  soul  to  be, 
O,  give  me  not  this  cup  of  poison  —  this : 
That  I  have  been  your  cause  of  bitterness; 
Have  stopped  your  growth  and  introverted  you, 
Given  you  eyes  that  see  but  lies  and  lust 
In  human  nature,  evil  in  the  world  — 
Eyes  that  God  meant  to  see  the  good  and  strive 
For  goodness.     If  I  drove  you  from  the  war, 
Made  you  distrust  its  purpose  and  its  faith, 
Triumphant  over  selfishness  and  wrong, 
Oh,  leave  me  with  the  hope  that  peace  will  come, 
And  vision  once  again  to  bless  your  life. 
Behold  me  as  America,  taught  but  half, 
Wayward  and  thoughtless,  fighting  for  a  chance; 
Denied  its  ordered  youth,  thrown  into  life 
But  half  prepared,  so  seeking  to  emerge 
Out  of  a  tangled  blood,  and  out  of  the  earth 
A  creature  of  the  earth  that  strives  to  win 
A  soul,  a  voice.     Behold  me  thus  —  forgive ! 
Take  from  my  life  the  beauty  that  you  found, 
Nothing  can  kill  that  beauty  if  you  press 
Its  blossom  to  your  heart,  and  with  it  rise 
To   nobleness,   to   duty,    give  your   life 
To  our  America." 

[367] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

"  The  Lord  bless  you, 

And  make  his  face  to  shine  upon  you,  and 
Be  gracious  to  you.     The  Lord  lift  up  his  countenance 
Upon  you,  give  you  peace,  both  now  and  ever 
More.     Amen!" 


So  Elenor's  letters  ended 
The  evidence.     The  afternoon  was  spent. 
The  inquest  was  adjourned  till  ten  o'clock 
Next  morning.     They  arose  and  left  the  room.  .  . 
And  Merival  half-ill  went  home.     Next  day 
He  lounged  with  books  and  had  the  doctor  in, 
And  read  his  mail,  more  letters,  articles 
About  the  inquest,  Elenor.     And  from  France 
A  little  package  came.     And  here  at  last 
Is  Elenor  Murray's  diary!     Merival  turns 
And  finds  the  entries  true  to  Barrett  Bays; 
Some  word,  a  letter  too  from  France  which  says: 
The  sender  learned  the  name  by  tracing  out 
A  number  in  the  diary,  heard  the  news 
Of  Elenor  Murray  from  the  paper  at  home 
In  Illinois.     And  of  the  diary  this: 
He  got  it  from  a  poilu  who  was  struck 
By  this  same  diary  on  the  cheek.     A  slap 
That  stung  him,  since  the  diary  had  been  thrown 
By  Elenor  Murray  from  the  second  story. 
This  poilu,  being  tipsy,  raved  and  thought 
Some  challenger  had  struck  him.     Roaring  so 
He's  taken  in.     Some  weeks  elapse,  he  meets 
Our  soldiers  from  the  States,  and  shows  the  diary, 
[368] 


ELENOR  MURRAY 

And  tells  the  story,  has  the  diary  read 
By  this  American,  gives  up  the  diary 
For  certain  drinks.     And  this  American 
Has  sent  it  to  the  coroner. 

A  letter 

To  Merival  from  an  old  maiden  aunt, 
Who's  given  her  life  to  teaching,  pensioned  now 
And  visiting  at  Madison,  Wisconsin. 
Aunt  Cynthia  writes  to  Merival  and  says: 
"  I  know  you  are  fatigued,  a  little  tired 
With  troubles  of  the  lower  plane  of  life. 
Quit  thinking  of  the  war  and  Elenor  Murray. 
Each  soul  should  use  its  own  divinity 
By  mastering  nature  outward  and  within. 
Do  this  by  work  or  worship,  Soul's  control, 
Philosophy,  by  one  or  more  or  all. 
Above  them  all  be  free.     This  is  religion, 
And  all  of  it.     Books,  temples,  dogmas,  rituals 
Or  forms  are  details  only.     By  these  means 
Find  God  within  you,  prove  that  you  and  God 
Are  one,  not  several,  justify  the  ways 
Of  God  to  man,  to  speak  the  western  way. 
I  wish  you  could  be  here  while  I  am  here 
With  Arielle,  she  is  a  soul,  a  woman. 
You  need  a  woman  in  your  life,  my  dear  — 
I  met  her  in  Calcutta  five  years  since, 
She  and  her  husband  toured  the  world  —  and  now 
She  is  a  widow  these  two  years.     I  started 
Arielle  in  the  wisdom  of  the  East. 

[369] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

That  avid  mind  of  hers  devours  all  things. 
She  is  an  adept,  but  she  thinks  her  sense 
Of  fun  and  human  nature  as  the  source 
Of  laughter  and  of  tears  keep  her  from  being 
A  mystic,  though  she  uses  Hindu  thought 
And  practice  for  her  soul." 

"  I'd  like  to  send 

Some  pictures  of  her,  if  she'd  let  me  do  it : 
Arielle  with  her  dogs  upon  the  lawn, 
Her  arms  about  their  necks.     Or  Arielle 
About  her  flowers.     I've  another  one, 
Arielle  on  her  favorite  horse:  another, 
Arielle  by  her  window,  hand  extended, 
The  very  soul  of  rhythm;  and  another, 
Arielle  laughing  like  a  rising  sun, 
No  one  can  laugh  as  she  does.     For  you  see 
Her  outward  soul  is  love,  her  inward  soul 
Is  wisdom  and  that  makes  her  what  she  is: 
A  Robin  Goodfellow,  a  Puck,  a  girl, 
A  prankish  wit,  a  spirit  of  bright  tears, 
A  queenly  woman,  clothed  in  majesty, 
A  rapture  and  a  solace,  comrade,  friend, 
A  lover  of  old  women  such  as  I ; 
A  mother  to  young  children,  for  she  keeps 
A  brood  of  orphans  in  her  little  town. 
She  is  a  will  as  disciplined  as  steel, 
Has  suffered  and  grown  wise.     Her  tenderness 
Is  hidden  under  words  so  brief  and  pure 
You  cannot  sense  the  tenderness  in  all 
[370] 


ELENOR  MURRAY 

Until  you  read  them  over  many  times. 
She  is  a  lady  bountiful,  who  gives 
As  prodigally  as  nature,  and  she  asks 
No  gifts  from  you,  but  gets  them  anyway, 
Because  all  spirits  pour  themselves  to  her. 
If  I  were  taking  for  America 
A  symbol,  it  would  be  my  Arielle 
And  not  your  Elenor  Murray." 

"Here's  her  life! 

Her  father  died  when  she  was  just  a  child, 
Leaving  a  modest  fortune  to  a  widow, 
Arielle's  mother,  also  other  children. 
After  a  time  the  mother  went  to  England 
And  settled  down  in  Sussex.     There  the  mother 
Was  married  to  a  scoundrel,  mad-man,  genius, 
Who  tyrannized  the  household,  whipped  the  children. 
So  Arielle  at  fourteen  ran  away. 
She  pined  for  her  Wisconsin  and  America. 
She  went  to  Madison,  or  near  the  place, 
And  taught  school  in  the  country,  much  the  same 
As  Elenor  Murray  did. 

"  Now  here  is  something: 
Behold  our  world,  humanity,  the  groups 
Of  people  into  states,  communities, 
Full  up  of  powers  and  virtues,  aid  and  light  — 
Friends,  helpers,  understanders  of  the  soul. 
It  may  be  just  the  status  of  enlightment, 
But  I  think  there  are  brothers  of  the  light, 
[37i] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  powers  around  us;  for  if  Elenor  Murray 
Half-fails,  is  broken,  here  is  Arielle 
Who  with  the  surer  instinct  finds  the  springs 
Of  health  and  life.     And  so,  I  say,  if  I 
Had  daughters,  and  were  dying,  leaving  them, 
I  should  not  fear ;  for  I  should  know  the  world 
Would  care  for  them  and  give  them  everything 
They  had  the  strength  to  take." 

"  Here's  Arielle. 

She  teaches  school  and  studies  —  O  that  wag  — 
She  posts  herself  in  Shakespeare,  forms  a  class 
Of  women  thrice  her  age  and  teaches  them, 
Adds  that  way  to  her  earnings.     Just  in  time  — 
Such  things  are  always  opportune,  a  man 
Comes  by  and  sees  her  spirit,  says  to  her 
You  may  read  Plato,  and  she  reads  and  passes 
To  Kant  and  Schopenhauer.     So  it  goes 
Until  by  twenty  all  her  brain  is  seething 
With  knowledge  and  with  dreams.     She  is  beloved 
By  all  the  people  of  the  country-side, 
Besought  and  honored  —  yet  she  keeps  to  self, 
Has  hardly  means  enough,  since  now  she  sends 
Some  help  to  mother  who  has  been  despoiled, 
Abandoned  by  the  mad-man." 

11  Then  one  spring 

A  paper  in  Milwaukee  gives  a  prize, 
A  trip  to  Europe,  to  the  one  who  gets 
The  most  subscriptions  in  a  given  time  — 

[372] 


ELENOR  MURRAY 

And  Arielle  who  has  so  many  friends  — 
Achievement  brings  achievement,  friends  bring  friends 
Finds  rallying  support  and  wins  the  prize. 
Is  off  to  Europe  where  she  meets  the  man 
She  married  when  returned." 

"  He  is  a  youth 

Of  beauty  and  of  promise,  yet  a  soul 
Who  riots  in  the  sunlight,  honey  of  life. 
And  gets  his  wings  gummed  in  the  poisonous  sweet. 
And  Arielle  one  morning  wakes  to  find 
A  horror  on  her  hands:  her  husband's  found 
Dead  in  a  house  of  ill-fame.     She  is  calm 
Out  of  that  rhythm,  sense  of  beauty  which 
Makes  her  a  power,  all  her  deeds  a  song. 
She  lays  the  body  under  the  dancing  muses 
There  in  the  wondrous  library  and  flings 
A  purple  robe  across  it,  kneels  and  lays 
Her  sunny  head  against  it,  says  a  prayer. 
She  had  been  constant,  loyal  even  to  dreams, 
To  this  wild  youth,  whose  errant  ways  she  knew. 
Now  don't  you  see  the  contrast?     I  refrain 
From  judging  Elenor  Murray,  but  I  say 
One  thing  is  beautiful  and  one  is  not. 
And  Arielle  is  beautiful  as  a  spirit, 
And  Elenor  is  somewhat  beautiful, 
But  streaked  and  mottled,  too.     Say  what  you  will 
Of  freedom,  nature,  body's  rights,  no  less 
Honor  and  constancy  are  beautiful, 
And  truth  most  beautiful.     And  Arielle 

[373] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Could  kneel  beside  the  body  of  her  dead, 

Who  had  neglected  her  so  constantly, 

And  say  a  prayer  of  thankfulness  that  she 

Had  honored  him  throughout  those  seven  years 

Of  married  life  —  she  prayed  so  —  why,  she  says 

That  prayer  was  worth  a  thousand  stolen  raptures 

Offered  her  in  the  years  of  life  between." 

"  Now  here  she  was  at  thirty 
Left  to  a  mansion  there  in  Madison. 
Her  husband  lived  there;  it  was  life,  you  know, 
For  her  to  meet  one  of  her  neighborhood 
In  Europe,  though  a  stranger  until  then. 
And  here  is  Arielle  in  her  mansion,  priestess 
Amid  her  treasures,  beauties,  for  this  man 
Has  left  her  many  thousands,  and  she  lives 
Among  her  books  and  flowers,  rides  and  walks, 
And  frolics  with  her  dogs,  and  entertains."  .  .  . 

And  as  the  Coroner  folded  the  letter  out 
A  letter  from  this  Arielle  fell,  which  read: 
"  We  have  an  aunt  in  common,  Cynthia. 
I  know  her  better  than  you  do,  I  think, 
And  love  her  better  too.     You  men  go  off 
With  wandering  and  business,  leave  these  aunts, 
And  precious  kindred  to  be  found  by  souls 
Who  are  more  kindred,  maybe.     I  have  heard 
Most  everything  about  you,  of  your  youth 
Your  schooling,  shall  I  say  your  sorrow  too? 
Admire  your  life,  have  studied  Elenor, 
[  374  1 


ELENOR  MURRAY 

As  I  have  had  the  chance  or  got  the  word. 

And  what  your  aunt  writes  in  advice  I  like, 

Approve  of  and  commend  to  you.     You  see 

I  leap  right  over  social  rules  to  write, 

And  speak  my  mind.     So  many  friends  I've  made 

By  searching  out  and  asking.     Why  delay? 

Time  slips  away  like  moving  clouds,  but  Life 

Says  to  the  wise  make  haste.     Is  there  a  soul 

You'd  like  to  know?     Then  signal  it.     I  light 

From  every  peak  a  beacon  fire,  my  peaks 

Are  new  found  heights  of  vision,  reaching  them 

I  either  see  a  beacon  light,  or  flash 

A  beacon  light.     And  thus  it  was  I  found 

Your  Cynthia  and  mine,  and  now  I  write. 

I  have  a  book  to  send  you,  show  that  way 

How  much  I  value  your  good  citizenship, 

Your  work  as  coroner.     I  had  the  thought 

Of  coroners  as  something  like  horse  doctors  — 

Your  aunt  says  you're  as  polished  as  a  surgeon. 

When  I  was  ripe  for  Shakespeare  some  one  brought 

His  books  to  me;  when  I  was  ripe  for  Kant, 

I  found  him  through  a  friend.     I  know  about  you, 

I  sense  you  too,  and  I  believe  you  need 

The  spiritual  uplifting  of  the  Gita. 

You  haven't  read  it,  have  you?     No!  you  haven't. 

I  wish  that  Elenor  Murray  might  have  read  it. 

I  grieve  about  that  girl,  you  can't  imagine 

How  much  I  grieve.     Now  write  me,  coroner, 

What  is  your  final  judgment  of  the  girl." 

[375] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

"  I  have  so  many  friends  who  love  me,  always 

New  friends  come  by  to  give  me  wisdom  —  you 

Can  teach  me,  I  believe,  a  man  like  you 

So  versed  in  life.     You  must  have  learned  new  things 

Exploring  in  the  life  of  Elenor  Murray. 

I  was  about  to  write  you  several  times. 

I  loved  that  girl  from  all  I  heard  of  her. 

She  must  have  had  some  faculty  or  fault 

That  thwarted  her,  and  left  her,  so  to  speak, 

Just  looking  into  promised  lands,  but  never 

Possessing  or  enjoying  them  —  poor  girl! 

And  here  she  flung  her  spirit  in  the  war 

And  wrecked  herself  —  it  makes  me  sorrowful. 

I  went  to  Europe  through  a  prize  I  won, 

And  saw  the  notable  places  —  but  this  girl 

Who  hungered  just  as  much  as  I,  saw  nothing 

Or  little,  gave  her  time  to  labor,  nursing  — > 

It  is  most  pitiful,  if  you'll  believe  me 

I've  wept  about  your  Eleanor.     Write  me  now 

What  is  your  final  judgment  of  the  girl?  "... 

So  Merival  read  these  letters,  fell  asleep. 

Next  day  was  weaker,  had  a  fever  too, 

And  took  to  bed  at  last.     He  had  to  fight 

Six  weeks  or  more  for  life.     When  he  was  up 

And  strong  enough  he  called  the  jury  in 

And  at  his  house  they  talked  the  case  and  supped. 


[376] 


THE  JURY  DELIBERATES 


THE  JURY  DELIBERATES 

The  jurymen  are  seated  here  and  there 
In  Merival's  great  library.     They  smoke, 
And  drink  a  little  beer  or  Scotch.     Arise 
At  times  to  read  the  evidence  taken  down, 
And  typed  for  reference.     Before  them  lie 
Elenor  Murray's  letters,  all  the  letters 
Written  to  Merival  —  there's  Alma  Bell's, 
And  Miriam  Fay's,  letters  anonymous. 
The  article  of  Roberts  in  the  Dawn, 
That  one  of  Demos,  Hogos;  a  daily  file 
Of  Lowell's  Times  —  Lowell  has  festered  now 
Some  weeks,  a  felon-finger  in  a  stall. 
And  where  is  Barrett  Bays?     In  Kankakee 
Where  Elenor  Murray's  ancestor  was  kept. 
The  strain  and  shame  had  broken  him;  a  fear 
Fell  on  him  of  a  consequence  when  the  coroner 
Still  kept  him  with  a  deputy.     He  grew  wild, 
Attacked  the  deputy,  began  to  wander 
And  show  some  several  selves.     A  multiple 
Spirit  of  devils  had  him.     Dr.  Burke 
Went  over  him  and  found  him  mad. 

And   now 

The  jury  meet  amid  a  rapid  shift 
Of  changes,  mist  and  cloud.     The  man  is  sick 
Who  administers  the  country.       Has  come  back 
To  laud  the  pact  of  peace;  his  auditors 

[377] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Turn  silently  away,  whole  states  assemble 

To  hear  and  turn  away,  sometimes  to  heckle. 

And  if  a  mattoid  emperor  caused  the  war, 

And  Elenor  Murrays  put  the  emperor  down, 

The  emperor,  could  he  laugh  at  all,  can  laugh 

To  see  a  country,  bent  to  spend  its  last 

Dollar,  its  blood  to  the  last  drop,  having  spent 

Enough  of  these,  go  mad  as  Barrett  Bays. 

And  like  a  headless  man,  seen  in  a  dream, 

Go  capering  in  an  ecstasy  of  doubt, 

Regret  and  disillusion.     He  can  laugh 

To  see  the  pact,  which  took  the  great  estate, 

Once  his  and  God's,  and  wrapt  it  as  with  snakes 

That  stung  and  sucked,  rejected  in  the  land 

That  sent  these  Elenor  Murrays  to  make  free 

The  world  from  despotism.     See  that  very  land 

Crop  despotisms  —  so  the  jury  sees 

Convened  to  end  the  case  of  Elenor  Murray.  .  .  . 

And  Rev.  Maiworm,  juryman,  gives  his  thought 
To  conquest  of  the  world  for  Christ,  and  says 
The  churches  must  unite  to  free  the  world 
From  war  and  sin.     Result?     Why  less  and  less 
Homes  like  the  Murray  home,  where  husband,  wife, 
Live  in  dissension.     More  and  more  of  schools 
For  Elenor  Murrays.     Happy  marriages 
Will  be  the  rule,  our  Elenors  will  find 
Good  husbands,  quiet  hearths,  a  competence. 
And  Isaac  Newfeldt  said:  "You  talk  pish-posh. 
You  go  about  at  snipping  withered  leaves, 

[378] 


THE  JURY  DELIBERATES 

And  picking  blasted  petals  —  take  the  root, 

Get  at  the  soil  —  you  cannot  end  these  wars 

Until  you  solve  the  feeding  problem.     Quit 

Relying  on  your  magic  to  make  bread 

With  five  loaves  broken,  raise  a  bigger  crop 

Of  wheat,  and  get  it  to  the  mouths  of  men. 

And  as  for  sin  —  what  is  it  ?  —  All  of  sin 

Lies  in  the  customs,  comes  from  how  you  view 

The  bread  and  butter  matter;  all  your  gods 

And  sons  of  God  are  guardians  of  the  status 

Of  business  and  of  money;  sin  a  thing 

Which  contradicts,  or  threatens  banks  and  wharves. 

And  as  for  that  your  churches  now  control 

As  much  as  human  nature  can  digest 

A  dominance  like  that.     And  what's  the  state 

Of  things  in  Christendom?     Why,  wars,  and  want 

And  many  Elenor  Murrays.     Tyrannies 

Are  like  as  pea  and  pea;  you  shall  not  drink, 

Or  read,  or  talk,  or  trade,  are  from  one  pod. 

What  would  I  do  ?     Why,  socialize  the  world, 

Then  leave  men  free  to  live  or  die,  let  nature 

Go  decimating  as  she  will,  and  weed 

The  worthless  with  disease  or  alcohol  — 

You  won't  see  much  of  that,  however,  if 

You  socialize  the  world." 

"  And  David  Barrow 
Spoke  up  and  said :  "  No  ism  is  enough. 
The  question  is,  Is  life  worth  living,  good 
Or  bad?     If  bad,  I  think  that  Elenor  Murray  had 
[379] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

As  good  a  life  as  any.     Here  we've  sat 

These  weeks  and  heard  these  stories  —  nothing  new ; 

And  as  to  waste,  our  time  is  wasted  here, 

If  there  were  better  things  to  do ;  and  yet 

Perhaps  there  is  no  better.     I've  enjoyed 

This  work,  association.     Well,  you're  told 

To  judge  not,  and  that  means  to  judge  not  man; 

You  are  not  told  to  judge  not  God.     And  so 

I  judge  Him.     And  again  your  Elenor  Murrays, 

Your  human  being  cannot  will  his  way, 

But  God's  omnipotent,  and  where  He  fails 

He  should  be  censured.     Why  does  He  allow 

A  world  like  this,  and  suffer  earthquakes,  storms, 

The  sinking  of  Titanics,  cancers?     Why 

Suffer  these  wars,  this  war? —     Talk  of  the  riffles 

That  flowed  from  Elenor  Murray  —  here's  a  wave 

Of  tidal  power,  stirred  by  a  greedy  coot 

Who  called  himself  an  emperor!     And  look 

Our  land,  America,  is  ruined,  slopped 

For  good,  or  for  our  lives  with  filth  and  stench; 

So  that  to  live  here  takes  what  strength  you  have, 

None  left  for  living,  as  a  man  should  live. 

And  this  America  once  free  and  fair 

Is  now  the  hatefulest,  commonest  group  of  men, 

Women  and  children  in  the  Occident. 

What's  life  here  now?     Why,  boredom,  nothing  else. 

Why  pity  Elenor  Murray?     Gottlieb  Gerald 

Told  of  her  home  life;  it  was  good  enough, 

Average  American,  or  better.     Schools 

She  had  in  plenty,  what  would  she  have  done 

[380] 


THE  JURY  DELIBERATES 

With  courses  to  the  end  in  music,  art  ? 

She  was  not  happy.     Elenor  had  a  brain, 

And  brains  and  happiness  are  at  enmity. 

And  if  the  world  goes  on  some  thousand  years, 

The  race  as  much  advanced  beyond  us  now 

In  feeling,  thought,  as  we  are  now  beyond 

Pinthecanthropus,  say,  why,  all  will  see 

What  I  see  now ; —  'twere  better  if  the  race 

Had  never  risen.     All  analogies 

Of  nature  show  that  death  of  man  is  death. 

He  plants  his  seed  and  dies,  the  resurrection 

Is  not  the  man,  but  is  the  child  that  grows 

From  sperm  he  sows.     The  grain  of  wheat  that  sprouts 

Is  not  the  stalk  that  bore  it.     Now  suppose 

We  get  the  secret  in  a  thousand  years, 

Can  prove  that  death's  the  end,  analogies 

Put  by  with  amber,  frogs'  legs  —  tell  me  then 

What  opiate  will  still  the  shrieks  of  men? 

But  some  of  us  know  now,  and  I  am  one. 

There  is  no  heaven  for  me ;  and  as  for  those 

Who  make  a  heaven  to  get  out  of  this  — 

You  gentlemen  who  call  life  good,  the  world 

The  work  of  God's  perfection;  yet  invent 

A  heaven  to  rest  in  from  this  world  of  woe  — 

You  do  not  wish  to  go  there ;  and  resort 

To  cures  and  Christian  Science  to  stay  here! 

Which  shows  you  are  not  sure.     And  thus  we  have 

Your  Christian  saying  at  heart  that  life  is  bad, 

And  heaven  is  good,  but  not  so  good  and  sure 

That  you  will  hurry  to  it.     Why,  I'll  prove 

[381] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  Christian  pessimist,  as  well  as  I. 
He  says  life  is  so  bad  it  has  no  meaning, 
Unless  there  be  a  future ;  and  I  say 
Life's  bad,  and  if  no  future,  then  is  worse. 
And  as  it  has  no  future,  is  a  hell. 
This  girl  was  soaked  in  opiates  to  the  last. 
Religion,  love  for  Barrett  Bays,  believed 
That  God  is  love.     Love  is  a  word  to  me 
That  has  no  meaning  but  in  terms  of  man. 
And  if  a  man  cause  war,  or  suffer  war, 
When  he  could  stop  it,  do  we  say  he  loves? 
Why  call  God  love  who  can  prevent  a  war? 
To  chasten  us,  to  better,  purge  our  sins? 
Well,  if  it  be  then  we  are  bettered,  purged 
When  William  Hohenzollern  goes  to  war 
And  makes  the  whole  world  crazy." 


"  Understand 

I  do  not  mock,  I  pity  man  and  life. 
No  man  has  sat  here  who  has  suffered  more, 
Seeing  the  life  of  Elenor  Murray,  through 
Her  life  beholding  life,  our  country's  life. 
I  pity  man  and  life.     I  curse  the  scheme 
Which  wakes  the  senseless  clay  to  lips  that  bleed, 
And  eyes  that  weep,  and  hearts  that  agonize, 
Then  in  an  instant  make  them  clay  again! 
And  for  it  all  no  reason,  that  the  reason 
Can  bring  to  light  to  stand  the  light." 

[382] 


THE  JURY  DELIBERATES 

"  And  yet 

I'd  make  life  better,  food  and  shelter  better 
And  wider  happiness,  and  fuller  love. 
We're  travelers  on  a  ship  that  has  no  bourne 
But  rocks,  for  us.     On  such  a  ship  'twere  wise 
To  have  the  daily  comforts,  foolish  course 
To  neither  eat,  nor  sleep,  keep  warm,  nor  sing. 
But  only  walk  the  rainy  deck  and  wait. 
The  little  opiates  of  happiness 
Would  make  the  sailing  better,  though  we  know 
The  trip  is  nowhere  and  the  rocks  will  sink 
The  portless  steamer." 

"Is  it  portless?"  asked 

Llewellyn  George,  "  you're  leaping  to  a  thought, 
And  overlook  a  world  of  intimations, 
And  hints  of  truth.     I  grant  you  take  this  race 
That  lives  to-day,  and  make  the  world  a  boat 
There  is  no  port  for  us  as  human  lives 
In  this  our  life.     But  look,  you  see  the  race 
Has  climbed,  a  mountain  trail,  and  looks  below 
From  certain  heights  to-day  at  man  the  beast. 
We  scan  a  half  a  million  years  of  man 
From  caves  to  temples,  gestures,  beacon  fires 
To  wireless.     Call  that  mechanical, 
And  power  developed  over  tools.     But  here 
Is  mystery  beyond  these. —  What  of  powers, 
Devotions,  aspirations,  sacred  flame 
Which  masters  nature,  worships  life,  defies 
Death  to  obstruct  it,  hungers  for  the  right, 

[383] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

The  truth,  hates  wrong,  and  by  that  passion  wills 
All  art,  all  beauty,  goodness,  and  creates 
Those  living  waters  of  increasing  life 
By  which  man  lives,  and  has  to-day  the  means 
Of  fuller  living.     Here's  a  realm  of  richness, 
Beyond  and  separate  from  material  things, 
Your  aeroplanes  or  conquests.     Now  I  put 
This  question  to  you,  David  Barrow,  what  .. 
But  God  who  is  and  has  some  end  for  life, 
And  gives  it  meaning,  though  we  see  it  not   - 
What  is  it  in  the  heart  of  man  which  lifts, 
Sustains  him  to  the  truth,  the  harmony, 
The  beauty  say  of  loyalty,  or  truth 
Or  art,  or  science?  lighting  lamps  for  men 
To  walk  by,  men  who  hate  the  lamps,  the  hand 
That  lights?     What  is  this  spirit,  but  the  spirit 
Of  Something  which  moves  through  us,  to  an  end, 
And  by  its  constancy  in  man  made  constant 
Proclaims  an  end?     There's  Bruno,  Socrates, 
There's  Washington  who  might  have  lost  his  life, 
Why  do  these  men  cling  to  the  vision,  hope? 
When  neither  poverty,  nor  jeers,  nor  flames, 
Nor  cups  of  poison  stay?     Who  say  thereby 
That  death  is  nothing,  but  this  life  of  ours, 
Which  can  be  shaped  to  truth  and  harmony, 
And  rising  flame  of  spirit,  giving  light, 
Is  everything  worth  while,  must  be  lived  so 
And  if  not  lived  so,  then  there's  death  indeed, 
By  turning  from  the  voice  that  says  that  man 
Must  still  aspire.     And  why  aspire  if  death 

[384] 


THE  JURY  DELIBERATES 

Ends  us,  the  scheme?     And  all  this  realm  of  spirit, 
Of  love  for  truth  and  beauty,  is  the  play 
Of  shadows  on  the  tomb?  " 

"  Now  take  this  girl : 

She  knew  before  she  sailed  to  France,  this  man, 
This  Barrett  Bays  was  mad  about  her  —  knew 
She  could  stay  here  and  have  him,  live  with  him, 
And  thus  achieve  a  happiness.     And  she  knew 
To  leave  him  was  to  make  a  chance  to  lose  him. 
But  then  you  say  she  knew  he'd  tire  of  her, 
And  left  for  France.     And  still  that  happiness 
Before  he  tired  would  be  hers.     You  see 
This  spirit  I'd  delineate  working  here: 
To  sacrifice  and  by  the  sacrifice 
Rise  to  a  bigger  spirit,  make  it  truer; 
Then  bring  that  truer  spirit  to  her  love 
For  Barrett  Bays,  and  not  just  loll  and  slop 
In  love  to-day.     Why  does  she  wish  to  give 
A  finer  spirit  to  this  Barrett  Bays? 
And  to  that  end  take  life  in  hand?     It's  this: 
My  Something,  God  at  work.     You  say  it's  woman 
In  sublimate  of  passion  —  call  it  that. 
Why  sublimate  a  passion?     All  her  life 
This  girl  aspires  —  you  think  to  win  a  man? 
But  win  a  man  with  what  ?     With  finest  self 
Make  this  her  contribution  to  these  riches, 
Which  Bruno  and  the  others  filled  so  full. 
You  see  this  Something  going  on,  but  races 
Come  up,  express  themselves  and  pass  away; 

[385] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

But  yet  this  Something  manifests  itself 

Through  souls  like  Elenor  Murray's  —  fills  her  life 

With  fuller  meanings,  maybe  at  the  last 

This  Something  will  reveal  itself  so  clear 

That  men  like  David  Barrow  can  perceive. 

And  Love,  this  spirit,  twin  of  Death,  you  see 

Love  slays  this  girl,  but  Love  remains  to  slay, 

Lift  up,  drive  on  and  slay.     I  call  Death  twin 

Of  Love,  and  why?     Because  two  things  alone 

Make  what  we  are  and  live,  first  Love  the  flame, 

And  Death  the  cap  that  snuffs  it.     Is  it  bread 

That  keeps  us  dancing,  skating  like  these  bugs 

That  play  criss-cross  on  evening  waters  ?  —  no ! 

It's  bread  to  get  more  life  to  give  more  love, 

Bring  to  some  heart  a  fuller  life,  receive 

A  fuller  life  for  having  given  life. 

This  force  of  love  may  look  demonical. 

It  tears,  destroys,  and  crushes,  chokes  and  kills, 

Is  always  stretching  hands  to  Death  its  twin. 

And  yet  it  is  creation  and  creates, 

Feeds  roses,  jonquils,  columbines,  gardenias, 

As  well  as  thistles,  cockle  burrs  and  thorns. 

This  is  the  force  to  which  the  girl's  alert, 

And  sensitive,  is  shaken  by  its  power, 

Driven,  uplifted,  purified;  a  doll 

Of  paper  dancing  on  magnetic  plates ; 

And  by  that  passion  lusts  for  Death  himself, 

For  union  with  another,  sacrifice, 

Beauty,  and  she  aspires  and  toils,  and  turns 

To  God,  the  symptom  always  of  this  nature. 

[386] 


THE  JURY  DELIBERATES 

My  fellow-jurymen,  you'll  never  see, 

Or  learn  so  well  about  another  soul 

That  had  this  Love  force  deeper  in  her  flesh, 

Her  spirit,  suffered  more.     Why  do  we  suffer? 

What  is  this  love  force?     'Tis  the  child  of  blood 

Of  madness,  as  this  Elenor  is  the  seed 

Of  that  old  grandma,  who  was  mad,  and  cousin 

Of  Taylor  who  did  murder.     What  is  this 

But  human  spirit  flamed  and  subtleized 

Until  it  is  a  poison  and  a  food; 

A  madness  but  a  clearest  sanity ; 

A  vision  and  a  blindness,  all  as  if 

When  nature  goes  so  far,  refines  so  much 

Her  balance  has  been  broken,  if  the  Something 

Makes  not  a  genius  or  a  giant  soul. 

And  so  we  suffer.     But  why  do  we  suffer? 

Well,  not  as  Barrow  said,  that  life  is  bad ; 

A  failure  and  a  fraud.     Not  suffering 

That  points  to  dust,  defeat,  is  painfulest; 

But  suffering  that  points  to  skies  and  realms 

Above  us,  whence  we  came,  or  where  we  go, 

That  suffering  is  most  poignant,  as  it  is 

Significant  as  well,  and  rapturous  too. 

The  pain  that  thrills  us  for  the  singing  Flame 

Of  Love,  the  force  creative,  that's  the  pain! 

And  those  must  suffer  most  to  whom  the  sounds 

Of  music  or  of  words,  or  scents,  or  scenes 

Recall  lost  realms.     No  soul  can  understand 

Music  or  words  in  whom  there  is  not  stirred 

A  recollection  —  that  is  genius  too: 

[387] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

A  memory,  and  reliving  hours  we  lived 

Before  we  looked  upon  this  world  of  man."  .  .  . 

Then  Winthrop  Marion  said:  "  I  like  your  talk, 
Llewellyn  George,  but  still  what  killed  the  girl? 
What  was  the  cause  of  death  of  Elenor  Murray? 
She  died  from  syncope,  that's  clear  enough. 
The  doctors  tell  us  that  in  syncope 
The  victim  should  be  laid  down,  not  held  up. 
And  Barrett  Bays,  the  bungler,  held  her  up 
When  she  was  stricken  —  like  the  man,  I  think! 
Well,  Coroner,  suppose  we  make  a  verdict, 
And  say  we  find  that  had  this  Barrett  Bays 
Sustained  this  Elenor  Murray  in  the  war, 
And  in  her  life,  with  friendship,  and  with  faith 
She  had  not  died.     Suppose  we  further  find 
That  when  he  took  her,  held  her  in  his  arms 
When  she  had  syncope,  he  was  dull  or  crazed, 
And  missed  a  chance  to  save  her.     We  could  find 
That  had  he  laid  her  down  when  she  was  stricken 
She  might  have  lived  —  I  knew  that  much  myself. 
And  we  could  find  that  had  he  never  driven 
This  woman  from  his  arms,  but  kept  her  there, 
Before  said  day  of  August  yth,  no  doubt 
She  had  not  died  on  August  7th.     In  short, 
He  held  her  up,  and  should  have  laid  her  down, 
And  drove  her  from  him  when  she  needed  arms 
To  hold  her  up.     And  so  we  find  her  death 
Was  due  to  Barrett  Bays  —  we  censure  him, 
Would  hold  him  to  the  courts  —  that  cannot  be  — 

[388] 


THE  JURY  DELIBERATES 

And  so  we  hold  him  up  for  memory 

Contemptuous,  and  say  his  bitter  words 

Brought  on  the  syncope,  so  long  prepared 

By  what  he  did.     We  write  his  course  unfeeling, 

Weak,  selfish,  petty,  flowing  from  the  craze 

Of  sexual  jealousy,  made  worse  by  war, 

And  universal  madness,  erethism 

Of  hellish  war.     And,  gentlemen,  one  thing: 

Paul  Robert's  article  in  the  Dawn  suggests 

Some  things  I  credit,  knowing  them.     We  get 

Our  notions  of  uncleanness  from  the  Jews, 

The  Pentateuch.     There  are  no  women  here, 

And  I  can  talk ;  —  you  know  the  ancient  Jews 

Deemed  sex  unclean,  and  only  to  be  touched 

At  sufferance  of  Jehovah ;  birth  unclean, 

A  mother  needing  purification  after 

Her  hour  of  giving  birth.     You  know  their  laws 

Concerning  adultery.     Well,  they've  tainted  us 

In  spite  of  Greece.     Now  look  at  Elenor  Murray: 

What  if  she  went  with  Gregory  Wenner.     Hell ! 

Did  that  contaminate  her,  change  her  flesh, 

Or  change  her  spirit?     All  this  evidence 

Shows  that  it  did  not.     But  it  changed  thisjrian, 

Because  his  mind  was  slime  where  snakes  could  breed. 

But  now  what  do  we  see  ?     That ;.  woman  is 

Essential  genius,  man  just  mechanism 

Of  conscious  thought  and  strength.     This  Elenor 

Is  wiser,  being  nature,  than  this  man, 

And  lives  a  life  that  puts  this  Barrett  Bays 

To  shame  and  laughter.     Look  at  her :  She's  brave, 

[389] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

Devoted,  loyal,  true  and  dutiful, 

She's  will  to  life,  and  through  it  senses  God, 

And  seeks  to  serve  the  cosmic  soul.     I  think 

This  jury  should  start  now  to  raise  a  fund 

To  erect  a  statue  of  her  in  the  park 

To  keep  her  name  and  labors  fresh  in  mind 

To  those  who  shall  come  after." 

"  And  I'll  sign 

A  verdict  in  these  words,  but  understand 
Such  things  are  Coram  non  judice;  still 
We  can  chip  in  our  money,  start  the  fund 
To  build  this  monument." 

Ritter  interrupted. 

The  banker  said:  "  I'll  start  it  with  a  hundred," 
And  so  the  fund  was  started. 

Marion 

Resumed  to  speak  of  riffles:  "  In  Chicago 
There's  less  than  half  the  people  speaking  English, 
The  rest  is  Babel:  Germans,  Russians,  Poles 
And  all  the  tongues,  much  rippling  going  on, 
And  if  we  couldn't  trace  the  riffles  out 
From  Elenor  Murray,  we  must  give  this  up. 
One  thing  is  sure:  Look  out  for  England,  if 
America  shall  grow  a  separate  soul. 
You  may  have  congresses,  and  presidents, 
These  states,  but  if  America  is  a  realm 
Of  tribute  as  to  thought,  America 

[390] 


THE  JURY  DELIBERATES 

Is  just  a  province.     And  it's  past  the  time 

When  we  should  be  ourselves,  we've  wasted  time, 

And  grafted  alien  things  upon  our  bole. 

A  Domesday  of  the  minds  that  think  and  know 

In  our  America  would  give  us  hope, 

We  have  them  in  abundance.     What  I  hate 

Is  that  crude  Demos  which  shouts  down  the  minds, 

Outvotes  them,  takes  these  silly  lies  that  move 

The  populace  and  makes  them  into  laws, 

And  makes  a  village  of  a  great  republic." 

And  Merival  listened  as  the  jurymen 
Philosophied  the  case  of  Elenor  Murray, 
And  life  at  large.     And  having  listened  spoke: 
"  I  like  the  words  Llewellyn  George  has  said. 
(  Love  is  a  sea  which  wrecks  and  sinks  our  craft, 
\But  re-creates  the  hands  that  build  again; 
And  like  a  tidal  wave  which  sponges  out 
An  island  or  a  city,  lifts  and  leaves 
Fresh  seeds  and  forms  of  beauty  on  the  peaks. 
The  whinchat  in  the  mud  upon  its  claws, 
Storm  driven  from  its  course  to  sea,  brings  life 
Of  animal  and  plant  to  virgin  shores, 
And  islands  strange  and  new.     These  happenings 
Of  Elenor  Murray  carry  beauty  forth, 
Unhurt  amid  the  storm-cloud,  darkness,  fire, 
To  lives  and  eras.     And  our  country  too, 
So  ruined  and  so  weltering,  like  a  ball 
Of  mud  made  in  a  missile  by  a  god 
May  bear,  no  less,  a  pearl  at  core,  a  truth, 

[391] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

A  liberty,  a  genius,  beauty, —  thrown 

In  mischief  by  the  god,  and  staining  walls 

Of  this  our  temple;  in  a  day  to  be 

Dried  up,  cracks  open,  and  the  pearl  appears 

To  be  set  in  a  precious  time  beyond 

Our  time  and  vision.     This  is  what  I  mean: 

Call  Elenor  egoist,  and  make  her  work, 

And  life  the  means  of  rich  return  to  her 

In  exaltation,  pride ;  —  a  missile  of  mud, 

It  carries  still  the  pearl  of  her,  the  seed 

Of  finer  spirits.     We  must  open  eyes 

To  see  inside  the  mud-ball.     If  it  be 

We  conquered  slavery  of  the  negro  through, 

Because  of  economic  forces,  yet 

We  conquered  it.     Trade,  cotton,  were  the  mud 

Upon  the  whinchat's  claws  containing  seeds 

Of  liberties  to  be,  and  carried  forth 

In  mid  seas  of  the  future  to  sunny  isles, 

More  blest  than  ours.     And  as  for  this,  you  know 

The  English  blotted  slavery  from  their  books 

And  left  their  books  unbalanced  in  point  of  cash, 

But  balanced  richly  in  a  manhood  gain. 

I  warn  you,  David  Barrow,  pessimist, 

Against  a  general  slur  on  life  and  man. 

Deride  the  Christian  ethic,  if  you  choose, 

You  must  retain  its  word  of  benevolence; 

Or  better,  you  must  honor  man,  whose  heart 

Leaps  up  to  its  benevolence,  from  whose  heart 

The  Christian  doctrine  of  benevolence 

Did  issue  to  this  world.     If  Christian  doctrine 

[392] 


THE  JURY  DELIBERATES 

Be  man-made,  not  a  miracle,  as  it  is 
All  man-made,  still  it's  out  of  generous  fire 
Of  human  spirit;  that's  the  thing  divine.  .  .  . 
Now  how  is  Elenor  Murray  wonderful 
To  me  viewed  through  this  mass  of  evidence? 
Why,  as  the  soul  maternal,  out  of  which 
All  goodness,  beauty,  and  benevolence, 
All  aspiration,  sacrifice,  all  death 
For  truth  and  liberty  blesses  life  of  us. 
This  soul  maternal,  passion  to  create 
New  life  and  guide  it  into  happiness, 
Is  Mother  Mary  of  all  tenderness, 
All  charity,  all  vision,  rises  up 
From  its  obscurity  and  primal  force 
Of  romance,  passion  and  the  child,  to  realms, 
Democracies,  republics;  never  flags 
To  make  them  brighter,  freer,  so  to  spread 
Its  ecstasy  to  all,  and  take  in  turn 
Redoubled  ecstasy!     The  tragedy 
Is  that  this  Elenor  for  her  mother  gift 
Is  cursed  and  tortured,  sent  a  wanderer  ; 
And  in  her  death  must  find  much  clinging  mud 
Around  the  pearl  of  her.     If  that  be  mud, 
Which  we  have  heard,  around  her,  is  it  mud 
That  weights  the  soul  of  America,  the  pure 
Dream  of  our  founders?     Larger  Athens,  where 
All  things  should  be  heard  gladly  and  considered, 
And  men  should  grow,  be  forced  to  grow,  because 
Not  driven  or  restrained  by  usages, 
Or  laws  of  mad  majorities,  but  left 
[393  ] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

At  their  own  peril  to  work  out  their  lives.  .  .  . 

Well,  gentlemen,  I'll  tell  you  what  I've  learned. 

What  is  a  man  or  woman  but  a  sperm 

Accreted  into  largeness?     Still  a  sperm 

In  likeness,  being  brain  and  spinal  cord, 

Fed  by  the  glands,  the  thyroid  and  the  rest, 

Whose  secrets  we  are  ignorant  of.     We  know 

That  when  they  fail  our  minds  fail.     But  the  glands 

Are  visible  and  clear:  but  in  us  whirl 

Emotions ;  fear,  disgust,  murder  or  wrath, 

Traced  back  to  animals  as  moods  of  flight 

Repulsion,  curiosity,  all  the  rest. 

Now  what  are  these  but  levers  of  our  machine? 

Elenor  Murray  teaches  this  to  me: 

Build  up  a  science  of  these  levers,  learn 

To  handle  fear,  disgust,  anger,  wonder. 

They  teach  us  physiology;  who  teaches 

The  use  of  instincts  and  emotions,  powers? 

All  learning  may  be  that,  but  what  is  that? 

Why  just  a  spread  of  food,  where  after  nibbling 

You  learn  what  you  can  eat,  and  what  is  good 

For  you  to  eat.     You'll  see  a  different  world 

When  this  philosophy  of  levers  rules."  .  .  . 

Then  Merival  tacked  round  and  said:  "  I'll  show 
The  riffles  in  my  life  from  Elenor  Murray: 
The  politicians  give  me  notice  now 
I  cannot  be  the  coroner  again. 
I  didn't  want  to  be,  but  I  had  planned 
To  go  to  Congress,  and  they  say  to  that 
[  394  1 


THE  VERDICT 

We  do  not  want  you.     So  my  circle  turns, 
And  riffles  back  to  breeding  better  hogs, 
And  finer  cattle.     Here's  the  verdict,  sign 
Your  names,  and  I'll  return  it  to  the  clerk. 


THE  VERDICT 

"  An  inquisition  taken  for  the  people 

Of  the  State  of  Illinois  here  at  LeRoy, 

County  aforesaid,  on  the  7th  of  August, 

Anno  Domini,  nineteen  hundred  nineteen, 

Before  me,  William  Merival,  coroner 

For  the  said  County,  viewing  here  the  body 

Of  Elenor  Murray  lying  dead,  upon 

The  oath  of  six  good  lawful  men,  the  same 

Of  the  said  County,  being  duly  sworn 

To   inquire   for  the  said   people   into   all 

The  circumstances  of  her  death,  the  said 

Elenor  Murray,  and  by  whom  the  same 

Was  brought  about,  and  in  what  manner,  when, 

And  where  she  came  to  death,  do  say  upon 

Their  oaths,  that  Elenor  Murray  lying  dead 

In  the  office  of  the  coroner  at  LeRoy 

Came  to  her  death  on  August  yth  aforesaid 

Upon  the  east  shore  of  the  Illinois  River 

A  mile  above  Starved  Rock,  from  syncope, 

While  in  the  company  of  Barrett  Bays, 

Who  held  her  in  his  arms  when  she  was  seized, 

[395] 


DOMESDAY  BOOK 

And  should  have  laid  her  down  when  she  was  seized 
To  give  her  heart  a  chance  to  resume  its  beat." 


The  jury  signed  the  verdict  and  arose 

And  said  good-night  to  Merival,  went  their  way. 

Next  day  the  coroner  went  to  Madison 

To  look  on  Arielle,  who  had  written  him. 


[396] 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


Kt.  _    - 


AYlO'68-3 


" 


2&'?- 


•       •   •" 


SCP 1 0  1907  0  0 


L.OAN 


T. 


LD  2lA-60m-3,'65 
(F2336slO)476B 


General  Library     . 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


